


Something Past Survival

by ImUpToNoGood



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, M/M, Timeline: Post-Deathly Hallows, Timeline: Summer after 7th Year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-17
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 66,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImUpToNoGood/pseuds/ImUpToNoGood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, reconciliation between enemies is necessary to create a better future, one that is only possible if one embraces the past. Begins during the final chapters of Deathly Hallows, ignores the epilogue.  Will eventually be Harry/Draco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Battle Part 1: In the Room of Requirement

**Author's Note:**

> Several people have asked me to post Something Past Survival in a more public location than my LJ. The final movie inspired me to do as they asked. It is a WIP, but 93,000 words have been posted on my LJ, with another 6,000 just about ready to post, and another 60,000 words wait in the wings for me to catch up to those future scenes.
> 
> This chapter is based on the novel, and uses dialog from the Deathly Hallows. The movie played out quite differently.
> 
> Harry Potter, his friends, his enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to JK Rowling. I'm just visiting.
> 
> Comments are always welcome. I find they inspire me to write further, knowing someone else cares about the story.

**The Battle Part 1: In the Room of Requirement**

 _May 1, 1998, shortly before midnight_

The Dark Lord was winning. There was no way Potter and his band of incompetents could recover from this massacre. Which meant, before the final victory, Draco had to find a way back into the Dark Lord’s good graces, such as they were. Draco had failed too many times. He had failed to kill Dumbledore, had not identified Potter and the Mudblood when they were brought, captured by someone _other_ than the Malfoys, and the Malfoys had failed to keep Potter imprisoned. Draco had not been putting his will and attention into the Dark Lord’s assignments, and it showed, but he could not fail this time. The only thing he could think of that would mitigate the wrath the Malfoy family had earned was to deliver Potter to the Dark Lord personally. So he, Crabbe and Goyle hid in the corridors, disillusioned, looking for Potter.

None of it was as he expected. None of it was glorious, and the Dark Lord’s whim decided who could lord over the others, instead of inherent superiority. It was not based on skill or bloodlines or breeding. Draco despised his aunt’s lack of self-control, Pettigrew’s cringing, and the Dark Lord’s rants. His father had taught him better than that; he knew it was necessary to keep a cool head, to show that he had control of himself, and could control others That he was superior.

Draco had become good at presenting a calm, cool exterior, showing to the world that he was in control. Except with Potter. He hated that about Potter. How is it that the dratted “Boy Who Lived” always broke through Draco’s mask, causing Draco to lash out with no more control than a hippogriff? He was pureblood, in control, destined to be on the winning side.

All of them—all of the Dark Lord’s chosen—had bowed before him, had kissed the hem of his robe, had done his bidding. He was going to create a world for them based on the values Draco believed in: that pure-bloods were better than others. That pure-blood wizards needed to keep themselves apart from the mudbloods and half-bloods, to hold to their history and heritage and traditions. Draco was proud of those traditions. He was proud to be a Malfoy.

He was starting to question whether the Dark Lord would value those traditions. He had been shocked this past year to discover that the Dark Lord was a half-blood. How could he value the pure-blood traditions if he was not one himself? But, for good or ill, the Dark Lord was winning. And the Malfoys had to find their way back to the winning side.

It was necessary to be the winner.

Suddenly, as if summoned by Draco’s thoughts, there he was: Potter, with Weasel and the Mudblood. Right near the entrance to the Room of Hidden Things. They were intent on something, not noticing as Draco grabbed the door before it closed. He waited until they got inside a bit, and then peered inside. He knew this room. It was the room where he had fixed the vanishing cabinet that had allowed him to let in the Death Eaters at the end of last year, in the failed attempt to take over Hogwarts. As soon as the trio had passed the first shelving stuffed with forgotten keepsakes, Draco, Crabbe and Goyle followed them in.

Draco gestured for Crabbe and Goyle to remain silent, and, surprisingly, they did. They had both been acting rebellious, of late, as the Malfoy star waned. That would soon be righted. But for now, he wanted to know what Potter was up to. There was a reason Potter had returned to Hogwarts, after running away and hiding for weeks on end, and as much as Draco would have liked to think it was just to be in charge of the battle, garnering attention and glory, Draco was no longer sure that was who Harry Potter was.

“Accio diadem,” Granger said. Draco looked to see if anything came flying toward her. Nothing did. He was not surprised, this room had its own ideas. Over the past months he had encountered the room’s unique sensibilities, sometimes to his benefit, and occasionally preventing him from progressing on his project. That one had succeeded. Not that the Dark Lord had recognized him for it, not after he had failed with Dumbledore.

“Let’s split up.” Potter said. “Look for a stone bust of an old man wearing a wig and a tiara. It’s standing on a cupboard and it’s definitely somewhere around here.”

What would Potter and his flunkies be doing searching for a bloody tiara, when the Dark Lord was about to invade Hogwarts?

He followed the sound of Potter’s voice, always keeping one of the towering shelvings of detritus between them. When Potter got far enough away from his friends, Draco gestured Crabbe and Goyle forward. Potter was scanning the walls of items, muttering to himself. Draco followed him, quietly, stepping carefully around the junk on the floor, keeping just enough distance. Potter reached out toward something. Now that Draco knew what Potter was after, he stepped forward, Crabbe and Goyle stepped in front of him, protecting. At least they still had those habits ingrained. “Hold it, Potter.”

Potter spun, wand out. Draco felt a surge of hate.

“That’s my wand you’re holding.”

Draco pointed his wand, his mother’s wand, at Potter.

“Not anymore!” Potter panted, grasping it still tighter. “Winners keepers, Malfoy.” Draco raised an eyebrow at the schoolyard taunt. Potter always seemed to live as if he believed those childish maxims. No wonder the Dark Lord was winning.

“Who’s lent you theirs?” Potter said.

“My mother,” Draco admitted, and as expected, Potter laughed. Idiot. It took a skilled wizard to use another’s wand successfully. He had worked with it for weeks, and had mastered the wand. Mostly. He had hated being so out of control of his magic.

“So, how come you three aren’t with Voldemort?” Potter asked, saying the name in that way of his, as if the Dark Lord were something distasteful.

“We’re gonna be rewarded,” Crabbe said. Draco could have kicked him, but he dare not take his attention off of Potter. “We’ve decided to bring you to Him.” Crabbe continued. Why did minions always feel it necessary to discuss their plans with the enemy?

“Good plan,” Potter mocked, and Draco seethed.

“So, how did you get in here?” Potter asked. As if Potter knew better about this room than he did.

“I virtually lived in the Room of Hidden Things all last year. _I_ know how to get in.”

“We was hiding in the corridor outside,” Goyle added, uselessly. “We can do Diss-lusion charms now.” Way to go, Goyle, reveal your strengths, such as they are, to the enemy, Draco sneered to himself as Goyle continued. “And then, you turned up, right in front of us, and said you were looking for a die-dum. What’s a die-dum?” Goyle’s face had an appalling look of confusion on it. Draco shuddered. Idiot.

“Harry.” The Weasel’s voice came from across one of the towering rows of bric-a-brac. “Are you talking to someone?” What a bloody genius.

Crabbe spun, pointed his wand at the 50-foot mountain of random things between them and the Weasel, and shouted “Descendo.” The top of the towering pile of books, robes, broomsticks, treasures from decades of students and not a few teachers, tottered, then started to tumble, thankfully away from them, into the aisle where the Weasel stood.

Potter shouted the Weasel’s name, and Granger screamed from a distance. Potter raised _his_ wand and shouted, “Finite!” The wall stabilized.

Crabbe lifted his wand to repeat the spell, but Draco grabbed his arm, and pushed it back down. “No!” Draco said. “If you wreck the room, you might bury this diadem thing.”

“What’s that matter?” asked Crabbe. “It’s Potter the Dark Lord wants. Who cares about the die-dum?”

Draco spoke in his most patient voice, his “I am surrounded by idiots” voice. “Potter came in here to get it. So that must mean— “Draco prompted.

“Must mean? Who cares what you think?” Crabbe turned on Draco. “I don’t take your orders no more, Draco. You and your dad are finished!” That was it. Draco ignored the feeling of loss, fighting to hide the hurt those words caused him. He kept his face cold, superior. That was why they had to deliver Potter to the Dark Lord. If even Crabbe, who had stood by him since they were children, was turning against him, distaining him, Draco needed to do something drastic to regain position. He _needed_ to do this.

“Harry! What’s going on?” Weasley’s voice came across the tower. Unburied. Pity, that.

 _“Harry?”_ mimicked Crabbe. Harry lunged for the tiara on the bust of an old wizard. Crabbe brought up his wand. “Potter! Crucio!” The curse missed Potter, but hit the bust, and the bust, wig, and tiara all went flying. The tiara dropped out of sight.

“Stop!” Draco cried, hoping the tiara was not lost amidst the detritus, annoyed that Crabbe risked both Potter and the tiara. “The Dark Lord wants him alive!”

“So? I’m not killing him, am I?” Crabbe yelled. “But if I can, I will. The Dark Lord wants him dead, anyway. What’s the diff?” Crabbe tugged his arm away from Draco’s restraining hand. Draco would now have to fight Crabbe and Goyle to bring Potter to the Dark Lord. Draco would not let _anyone_ get in the way of his goal.

A red stunning spell burst from behind Potter, and Draco pulled Crabbe out of the way. “It’s that Mudblood! Avada Kedavra!” Crabbe aimed at Granger. Granger ducked, and the curse passed her harmlessly. Potter fired a stunning spell back at Crabbe, face contorted with fury. Crabbe ducked, knocking the wand out of Draco’s hand. The wand rolled out of sight. Draco felt its absence as curse after curse flew between Potter, the Weasel and Granger, and Crabbe and Goyle.

“Don’t kill him! Don’t kill him!” Draco yelled at Crabbe and Goyle.” Those idiots were ruining it, they were going to take this away from Draco. He scanned the floor for his wand. If he had it in hand, he would have stunned them all, Crabbe and Goyle included.

Crabbe and Goyle paused for a second, and Potter’s “Expelliarmus” whipped Goyle’s wand away into the debris around them. Goyle leapt toward where it went, tripping over some forgotten treasure. A second stunning spell came from Granger’s wand, and Draco ducked out of the way, Weasel missed Crabbe with a body bind, and Crabbe retorted with an AK, missing the Weasel. Those two needed to learn to take the moment to aim, or they’d never succeed in duelling.

Draco ducked behind a wardrobe, feeling the loss of his wand more strongly than ever. Granger stormed toward them, stunning Goyle, who collapsed on top of a pile of books.

Potter ignored Draco and Crabbe, searching a pile of junk. “It’s somewhere here! He glanced to Granger. “Look for it, while I go help Ron.” But Granger screamed, and Weasley and Crabbe were running toward them full tilt. Fire bloomed behind them. What had that idiot done?

“Like it hot, scum?” Crabbe yelled at Potter, as if he did not realize the fire was behind him as well. The walls of junk were catching fire, even stone, even metal. Draco recognized the curse with horror. Who in their right mind would cast Fiendfyre in a room full of junk, _while they were still inside??_

Potter shouted “Aguamenti,” as if that could stop Fiendfyre. The jet of water billowed into steam.

Draco grabbed Goyle, his stunned body heavy and awkward, but he shouldered him and ran. Crabbe passed them, not carrying anyone, and the two trios ran toward where Draco hoped he remembered the door to be, or at least away from the fire.

The fire blossomed into the fiends from which it got its name, serpents and chimeras, dragons and all sorts of beasts. They rose and fell, jaws of flame snapping at their heels. Potter and his friends had disappeared, but at this point, Draco didn’t care, scanning the walls, trying to peer through the aisles between the walls of burning junk, trying to find the grey square on the wall that was the door out of here.

The fire encircled them, and Draco adjusted Goyle on his shoulder, climbed an uncertain pile of debris, up and away from the flames at their feet. The air scorched his lungs, the fire blistered the skin of his legs under his robes. He pulled them up and gathered Goyle into his lap. He searched for a path out of there, a path not already engulfed by flames searing the air. He gulped air, feeling his lungs burn with the heat. The fire was all around him. He would not be the winner here. The fire came closer, burning, and Draco screamed.

Draco Malfoy was going to die.

But above him, he saw movement, someone on a broom, skin blackened with soot, except for twin circles around his eyes. Potter. What was Potter doing? Was he so intent on that tiara that he would fly into this inferno? But Potter fastened his gaze on Draco, and turned his broom toward him. He flew close, hand outstretched, and Draco, unbelieving, raised a hand for his enemy to grasp. The slick sweat on his hand caused Potters grip to slide away, and Draco knew Potter could not lift both his and Goyle’s weight. But Draco could not make himself let go of Goyle’s stupefied form.

Another broomstick flew into view. It was Weasley and Granger, riding double on the broom. Somehow, Weasley’s fiery hair did not succumb to the soot that covered the rest of them, it still shone out to rival the fire around them.

“If we die for them,” Weasley shouted, “I’ll kill you, Harry.” But they two of them flew toward Draco and Goyle, and between them grabbed Goyle and hoisted them onto the broomstick, then lurched drunkenly toward the door.

Draco wiped his hands on his robe, ignoring the pain of blisters breaking open, and reached once again upward, scarcely daring to hope that Potter would come back. But he did, grasping Draco’s arm and helping him climb behind him on the broom. Draco fastened his arms instinctively around Potters waist, holding tighter than he ever had to anything. Why had Potter come back? Draco would not have, had the roles been reversed. Draco needed Potter, needed the Dark Lord’s reward, but Potter did not need Draco Malfoy. Why had Potter come back for the ones who would turn him over to his enemy to be killed? Draco shuddered, held tighter still to the black haired body in front of him.

He saw the door, a grey rectangle in the wall. “The door, get to the door,” Draco pleaded. Potter aimed for it. But incredibly, Potter veered away.

“What are you doing, what are you doing? The door’s that way!” Panic made Draco’s voice pitch high in an undignified scream, but for once, he did not care. But Potter flew toward a piece of jewellery flung high into the air by the fire monsters, Potter reached out toward the cursed diadem for which he had come into the room, and with the seeker skills that had always outstripped Draco’s by just _that_ much, reached out and caught the diadem away from the open jaws of a fiery serpent, and then turned to aim back toward the now open door.

They flew out of the door, too fast to stop before crashing into the wall opposite the door in the corridor. The broom splintered, dropping both Draco and Potter onto the floor.

Draco tried to breathe in the fresh air, tried to ease the burning in his lungs, but his attempt was interrupted by a burst of coughing. The others were also coughing and panting. Everything hurt.

He grabbed something to help him sit up, only realizing afterward that it was Potter’s hand. It felt warm. Draco dropped it suddenly, looking around. The Gryffindor Trio surrounded him, and Goyle lay to the side, unconscious.

“Crabbe?” It was all he could choke out, already knowing the answer “Crabbe?”

“He’s dead.” Weasley spat, as if it were a victory.

Draco subsided into silence, shaken. He had known Crabbe since he could remember, since they were children. Vince and Greg had always been there, brought by their parents to Malfoy Manor for social events and meetings with the Dark Lord. Draco shuddered. It was all falling apart.

He was too stunned to feel grief, too shaken to feel much of anything.

A loud bang shook the walls and floor of the corridor. The ghostly shapes of the headless hunt charged through, screaming. Draco started at the sound, the movement, and became dimly aware of the din of the battle surrounding them. Screams, yells, the buzz and whine and explosions of spells hitting and missing. It was happening, right now, it was happening.

Draco slumped. He had no wand, no way to redeem himself in anyone’s eyes. He saw the same defeat in Goyle’s face, but avoided his gaze. Goyle was also wandless. Neither of them could make a difference now. It was over.

He was vaguely aware of the Trio making plans, checking in with each other, babbling nonsense, but he could not bring himself to care. The thing Potter had gone back for, the diadem, dangling from Potter’s wrist, smouldered into a dark flame and broke apart. Served him right, Draco thought out of habit. He tried to make himself focus on what they were saying. The Mudblood was prattling on about Fiendfyre, and Weasley took a pot-shot at Crabbe for casting it, but Draco could not gather the energy to respond.

The corridor suddenly became crowded, with Death Eaters and Weasleys casting curses and hexes at each other. Draco felt decidedly unsafe. With the Death Eaters near, it was not safe to be anywhere near Potter. A hole erupted in the side of the castle, proving Draco’s point. He watched as giant spiders crawled in through the hole. Numbly crawling over to where Goyle lay, Draco grabbed him, lifted him over his shoulder with a grunt that his father would have disapproved of. Malfoys do not grunt. Half carrying, half dragging his friend, Malfoy left the hole, the spiders, the Trio, the Weasleys, the fight.

But he could not escape it. Death Eaters, students and teachers were on all sides, furniture galloped around, blocking his way like a herd of sheep. Goyle was too heavy. Draco could not carry him and escape, so he tucked his unconscious friend in an unused room, hoping that the battle would not intrude there. He needed to get out of there. He made his way to the entrance hall, dodging curses, ducking spells, climbing the stairs toward escape. Just when he believed he would make it, he found himself jerked backward by his robes, lifted into the air like a child. The man who had grabbed him wore the mask of a Death Eater and a sneer.

I’m Draco Malfoy!” He pleaded. I’m Draco! I’m on your side!”

“Draco Malfoy. How lovely.”

Draco’s eyes widened as he recognised the voice. The Death Eater was not from the Inner Circle, and Draco did not remember his name, but he did remember the man screaming and pleading as Lucius cast Cruciatus. He could not remember what the man had done to warrant the Dark Lord’s displeasure… Draco knew too well how easily one might garner such treatment. A wrong word or glance. A failed mission.

The Death Eater firmed his grip on Draco’s robes with one hand, and raised his wand to Draco’s neck with the other. “You are no longer protected.” The man’s deep voice snarled. Draco turned cold.

Suddenly, the red light of a stunning spell came from nowhere, and the Death Eater collapsed. Draco fell on top of the Death Eater, turning to look this way and that, his face glowing with relief, looking for the one who had saved him. Just as suddenly, a fist impacted with his face, and the Weasel’s voice grated, “That’s the second time we’ve saved your life tonight, you two faced bastard!”

Draco collapsed onto the stunned Death Eater, his lip split and leaking blood, his head aching from smoke, from the noise, from all that was going on, from Weasley’s fist. He crawled off the Death Eater, and scuttled away, out the main entrance door and down the stairs leading away from the castle, out into the grounds. He darted toward Hogsmeade, away from the battle.


	2. The Battle Part 2: Running

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2, for your reading pleasure!
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter, his friends, his enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to JK Rowling. This chapter is based on the novel, and uses dialog from Chapters 31 through 36 of the book The Deathly Hallows. (The movie dialog was quite different.) Any dialog you recognise belongs to JK Rowling.
> 
> Comments are always welcome. I find they inspire me to write further, knowing someone else cares about the story.

**The Battle Part 2: Running**

 _May 2, 1998_

Draco sat knees up, hidden by bushes. If he had his wand, he would have cast a Disillusionment charm on himself, but the bushes would have to do. He could hear screams, shouts, and explosions. He could hear the crunch of rock on rock as the castle fell apart.

There was movement in the distance, flashes of light. His parents were out there somewhere. Maybe. His godfather. His Slytherin friends… well, comrades. And here he was, no wand, no hope, no future. He had cast his bet and lost. Draco put his head on his knees.

A closer sound drew his attention. He ducked downward, but curiosity got the better of him. It was Potter, Weasel and the Mudblood. Again. They were everywhere. Weren’t they supposed to be fighting in the battle? Some hero, the battle raged behind them, and they were running away. Bloody Perfect Potter, leaving the battle.

Draco did not quite believe it. Gryffindors didn’t run away. They didn’t even strategically retreat. They charged in, as if the world were offered to them on a platter, as if the only outcome could be the one they sought. So maybe the Scarhead was not running away. Maybe he was running toward something.

Draco suddenly needed to find out what that was.

He waited until they passed, then crept after them. Fortunately, they were intent on where they were going, not even checking around them. He heard Potter shout “The Whomping Willow,” and the three pelted toward it. Draco crept behind them, running from one bit of fallen castle to another, from bush to tree. Potter moved purposefully, and Draco did not try to keep up so much as he tried to keep the trio in sight.

There were open stretches between him and the Willow, where Potter was headed. Draco followed his progress. The blond was almost beyond caring if he was seen, but he had to find out what Potter was up to. He could not quite explain why, not even to himself. His own life did not to matter much anymore, except to himself. He could have no effect on the battle around him. His wand was out of reach, his parents were not powerful enough to protect him at present. The Malfoy aura he had leveraged for so many years, that he could have used to gain followers or to create an influence, was tarnished.

 _“No longer protected.”_ The Death Eater’s words echoed in his mind. He was not significant here. He hated that. But in times like these, you found out what was significant, gathered knowledge, tracked the action. And you used what you learned.

Potter was significant. It was likely that the Dark Lord would kill him, but Draco could see Potter had a plan, he moved forward with a purpose, and did not hesitate. Draco wanted to know what it was that Potter meant to do.

The Whomping Willow started thrashing as the trio came nearer, and Draco wondered what Potter thought he was doing. But Granger yelled something about being wizards, and with a swish and flick of her wand there was a flash of motion and the tree became still. Even with all the battle noise in the background, it suddenly seemed silent. Draco realized that the Whomping Willow had always created its own wind, and now it was still. The sounds of the battle suddenly seemed sharper, and somehow both closer and more distant, as if the scale had expanded.

How had Granger done that? How had she known to do that? Draco pushed down the admiration before he could feel it. It was just more evidence she was a know-it-all Mudblood.

He watched from the cover of a large, flat-topped piece of granite jutting from the ground, where he and Pansy had sat in his second year, practicing banishing spells by flicking wads of moistened parchment back and forth to each other. They had allotted points if the wads hit instead being caught by the spell of the other’s wand. Draco tried to remember the last time he had felt so carefree. It had been a long time. At least two years. Not since Potter put his father in Azkaban at the end of fifth year. Draco’s eyes narrowed as he watched them.

Potter, Weasel and the Mudblood threaded their way through the motionless, but still sharp twigs of the Willow, and somehow _climbed inside._ He waited for them to re-emerge. Minutes went by. A crash and shriek from the battle made Draco jump, but still he waited.

What if it was it a portal of some sort? Had he just lost them, waiting like an idiot? Draco could not think of any spell other than a portkey or a floo to transport people. There had been no crack of apparition. He supposed the Willow could have had a portkey tucked at its base, but that seemed unnecessarily complex. Why hide a portkey when you could just require a spell or phrase or motion to trigger one, and carry it, instead? Finally, he crept closer, noticing a small, darker hollow at the base of the tree, between the ridges of two large roots. He stared cautiously, but he needed to learn what they were up to. He needed knowledge. He started to creep forward again.

A sound sent him scuttling back behind the boulder. The cold, dangerously familiar sound of the Dark Lord’s voice. “You have fought valiantly.” Draco knew the Dark Lord could not possibly be speaking to him. It did not quite sound like a Sonorus Charm, it was too – large, somehow, as it echoed across the fields. But it still felt personal. As if the Dark Lord were speaking to him. “Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery.” And how to punish failure.

Draco shivered in the sun as the voice continued. This was the voice that had called for his Death Eaters to punish Draco, his mother, his father. This voice had required him to kill Dumbledore, knowing the pain of failure was death for his mother, maybe even his father. This was the voice of the one they had to please, that rewarded victory with power and failure with torture and death.

“You have sustained heavy losses,” the Dark Lord’s voice echoed. It sounded like he was speaking from several directions at once. “If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one.” Draco felt the cold granite against his back. A sharp edge poked unpleasantly into his shoulder blade. At one point, Draco would have listened to the Dark Lord’s display of power with unholy glee, knowing he and this powerful force were on the same side, the winning side. Knowing that Potter would die. _You are no longer protected._ At any moment, the Dark Lord could have a Malfoy killed, or do it himself.

“I do not wish this to happen,” the voice echoed. Draco started, but then realized that the Dark Lord was continuing his speech, not answering Draco’s thoughts. “Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste.” Yes, that is why the Malfoys fought alongside him. Every drop of pure blood is precious. Blood traitors like the Weasleys didn’t see this, they didn’t see that the Blood and traditions of magical families was something to protect.

“Lord Voldemort is Merciful.” Draco had seen that mercy. Draco had writhed under the merciful Cruciatus curse, and seen his mother and father do the same. Failure was always punished.

“I command my armies to retreat immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured.”

“I speak now to Harry Potter.” The voice continued. Draco glanced back to the Whomping Willow. Still no sign of Potter. What were they doing in the tree? “You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, the battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every man, woman and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour.”

Did the Dark Lord really expect Potter to just give himself up? Potter was annoying, and part of that was that he did not give up. Even when it made sense to do so. That idiot meddled everywhere, and threatening friends did not stop him. People could die all around him, and Potter would just continue right on. Sure, he whinged about the people who had died. As if Perfect Potter was the only person to have lost friends or family. But he would continue to fight, not considering the risk to others until it was too late to save them. After seven years, Draco knew how Potter was.

Speak of the git, and he shows up. The Gryffindor Trio crawled out of the tree. They were covered in dirt, which they tried to dust off with their hands, which only succeeded in getting the worst of it off, and grinding the rest of it in more thoroughly. Maybe there was a tunnel or a cave, then. The three Gryffindors ran back to the Castle, but Draco hesitated. He wanted to see where they had been, what they had been doing. The Willow was still not moving, so Draco edged closer.

When he got to the perimeter of the branches, he paused. The Willow still held still. A slight breeze jostled some of the upper branches, and a shower of loose twigs fell through the branches at him, but most were caught by upper branches before reaching the ground. Even though it was not banging its branches around, it still did not seem to want him there. Draco took a deep breath, and made his way through the twisted branches, toward the indentation from which Potter and the others had emerged.

It was an opening. Draco leaned forward to see inside, wishing for his wand again for a Lumos spell. But if he had his wand, he wouldn’t be here, tracking after Harry bloody Potter, he’d be fighting. Or he’d have turned Potter over and would be basking in the rewards the Dark Lord offered, instead of hiding from his punishments. No, not hiding, he reminded himself. Scouting.

He rested his hand on a protruding root to support himself as he leaned further, dislodging a twig that was sticking out of a knot at its base, when suddenly the Willow started to move again. It started slow, as if winding up, readying for a good throw like a chaser might ready to throw the Quaffle. Draco did not fancy being a Quaffle. A large branch pounded into the ground right next to him, and he quickly rolled over the root into the opening, managing to just miss another attempt of the tree to pound him to a bloody pulp.

Retreating a bit more into the gap, he looked out to see the tree writhing and pounding, each thump of a branch against the earth caused the ground to shake and dirt to fall into his hair from the ceiling above him. This was not good. Potter had come back out the same way he had gone in. Draco hoped that was not because it was the only way in or out, because he did not see how he was going to get past these branches now. He was acting like a bloody Gryffindork, going in without making the escape route certain. Draco looked up. The ceiling looked furry, as root tendrils hung down from the soil above him, poking through the wooden slats that had once been a ceiling. They and wooden beams supported the ceiling, and Draco, eyes becoming accustomed to the dark, could see he was in a tunnel, stretching down under the base of the tree. The wooden supports arched over it every few feet.

Somewhere along this tunnel, or at the other end, was the reason Potter had come in here.

Draco started forward, forced to drop to his hands and knees after a few feet. The tunnel constricted, and he wriggled through the narrowest part. The tunnel was longer than he expected. Potter must not have spent much time at the end of it, if it took this long to traverse.

The tunnel got dark almost immediately, and Draco wished again for his wand. Another thing to hate Potter for. _“Lumos.”_ Nothing happened. Of course not. Lumos was tied to the wand even more than most spells, and Draco had never been good at wandless magic. He felt a clump of dirt fell onto his hair, and he found himself wondering why he was doing this. Potter had left. He should be following Potter, not investigating places the bloody Boy Who Lived had passed on his way. But whatever was at the end of the tunnel must have been important. Potter had that stupid Gryffindor bravery thing, and as much as Draco hated to admit it, Potter was not a coward. Draco would have expected the bloody Boy Who Lived to be in the midst of the fighting, dying gloriously so everyone could put up a fucking shrine to him. Instead he had left the battle, he knew how to get past the Willow, and had crawled through this dirty, narrow, dark tunnel. Thus, it was not something that Potter did on a whim. Draco ignored the fact that he was crawling through the same tunnel, and had no idea why. Draco brushed the dirt off his head, combing his fingers through his hair, managing to get most of the dirt out, but grinding the rest more thoroughly in. He grimaced.

He started forward again, bumping his head against a particularly low beam in the earth above him. He rubbed his hair again, aware that it was becoming grimy, and the dampness and pain said he may have cut his head against the beam. Just great. How long was this stupid tunnel anyway? He thought he saw something ahead, lighter than the dark that surrounded him. He crawled more quickly, and the ceiling of the tunnel started to retreat from above his head, until it was high enough that he could stand.

There was an opening, camouflaged in the back of a shallow closet, and a large crate stood in front of the opening, hiding it and him. Draco stood for a moment and peered through the opening between the wall and the crate. It was a room in a house. It was filthy, with debris littering the floor. It seemed to be empty. What was Potter doing here? Was there some secret stash of something? Potter did seem to be collecting things: that diadem—Draco shoved the memory aside, flames, the certainty he was going to die, Potter’s hand lifting him up onto the broom, his terror as he grabbed Potter and held on. Draco did not think he could look Potter in the eye anytime soon.

He edged past the partially open door, nearly tripping over a pile of black cloth. His eyes skittered over the mound. Not a pile, a person. Merlin. The familiar profile of his godfather shocked him, and Draco dropped to his hands and knees, feeling the older man’s face. _Uncle Severus._ The face was cold, and there was blood, so much blood.

Was this what Potter had come here for? Had Potter done this? Draco started to feel a burning of hate stronger than any he had felt before, and he grabbed his teacher and held him close. Severus’ head dropped down over Draco’s shoulder, and he noticed what he had missed the first time. Bite marks. Draco recognized them. He had seen such marks before. Nagini. The Dark Lord had given more than one person to her, had displayed the damage she could create, made sure his Death Eaters understood yet another way he could punish those who disobeyed.

Nagini had killed Severus Snape. And the hate he had been feeling suddenly had a new target. Fucking Voldemort had killed his godfather. He had tortured his parents, sent Draco on a mission he could never have completed, and now killed Severus Snape.

When Draco’s father had been cold and demanding, Uncle Severus had given quiet, wry support. Draco had known him since he was a child, and knew how to read the dry humour behind the impassive face, to interpret the quirk of the lips. He had learned how to read his godfather’s emotions, when to face his anger, and when to run. He knew when he could smile at his wry comments, and how to see the pride that came through only when he had done something right. In the Potions classroom, Severus favoured him, but Draco knew that he was graded fairly at the end, based on his actual accomplishments. His father had to see the favour, had to hear the reports from the other Slytherins’ parents, but Draco recognised when his Godfather was proud, when he honoured Draco’s accomplishments.

Voldemort had killed him. He had left him behind, like a pile of rags. Snape had done everything that Voldemort asked, risking his displeasure only to protect Draco. Draco knew that now, having seen the results of his failure on himself, on his parents, and on Snape himself. Draco ran his hand near down Snape’s neck, finding the point just under the jaw, despairing and hoping at the same time. Severus could not be dead. He was too mean to die. He was Severus Snape and Snape was eternal.

The skin was cool, the body limp, but…

He felt something.

A pulse of blood, against Draco’s fingers. Slow, weak.

And another.


	3. The Battle Part 3: A Purpose

**The Battle Part 3: A Purpose**

 _May 2, 1998_

Draco’s gaze darted around. He could see nothing in the debris to help Snape. Feeling like an intruder, he searched his godfather’s pockets for something, anything, that would help. His godfather was a potions master, by Merlin’s dirty socks. He surely carried something. Anything. There was a bottle, but it was just for pain. He needed antivenin, he needed blood replenisher, he needed…

He needed to stopper death. Draco had learnt what his godfather meant, in that first amazing Potions class all those years ago. Snape had showed him the page in a potions book that detailed a potion that was almost impossible to make. He was trying to make a point at the time, Draco remembered.

He had been frustrated with Draco for spending time in class distracting Potter, instead of learning the potion himself. He had wanted to instil in Draco his own love of potions. He wanted Draco to know how many there were, and all that could be done with them. By then, Draco had stopped believing in Snape’s first-day speech, had challenged the older man to prove what potions could do.

Snape had showed him the book in which it was described, an old, leather-bound book with yellowed pages, and on one page was the potion, complete with ingredients and instructions.

Had his godfather ever made the potion? It was not much of a chance, but it was the only one he could think of.

Crawling through the tunnel again would take too much time. Draco dashed from the room, looking for a door to the outside. There were doors and windows, but they were all boarded up. Draco suddenly realized where he was. This was the Shrieking Shack! But he could not think about that now, or the rumour that it was haunted. How would he carry Severus back to the dungeons, let alone with no one seeing? He could not drag Snape through the tunnel. He could Apparate if he had a wand. He could not Apparate into the castle, but he could get to the clearing where he and Snape had met before going to Death Eater meetings. The thought of the meetings, of Snape serving the Dark Lord, faithfully, year after year, made Draco furious. This was how his godfather had been repaid.

He needed to get back to the castle. He needed a wand.

And there it was.

Snape’s wand.

Wonderingly, Draco picked it up. He had used his mother’s wand since spring, after Potter had taken his. It had never felt quite right, but this, holding his godfather’s wand, felt… wrong. He felt like he had intruded into his parents’ bedroom. Like he was holding something private, something personal. _“Lumos.”_ The tip of the wand flickered, as uncertain as his voice. Draco took a deep, steadying breath. _“Lumos.”_

A brighter flare came out of the tip of the wand. It felt odd, like he was casting a spell through Severus himself, like he was using Snape’s body as a wand. Draco shivered. He cast a lightening charm on the older man, and then crouched down and pulled one of Snape's arms over his shoulder, turning to hoist him onto his back. Leaning forward, Draco took a step to make sure he had a firm grip. Even lightened, it was awkward. Severus was significantly taller, and his knees bumped into Draco’s calves, his body dangling down Draco’s back. It was undignified, but Snape would never know. Now for the challenge. Could he Apparate with Severus’ wand? Did he have any choice?

He had learned to Apparate years before he had been allowed to take the stupid ministry classes. His father had insisted. He had not been allowed to do it where anyone could see, but his father had told him that he needed to be able to escape from difficult situations. This, however... Apparating with someone else’s wand, carrying that person, was dangerous. Perhaps…

He held Severus’ hand in his wand hand, arranging it so Severus’ fingers touched the wand as well. It felt, less invasive. As if Severus were sharing, instead of him intruding in the other man’s absence. Draco took a deep breath, straightened, and Apparated with a loud crack.

It worked.

There were no sounds of battle; the one hour cease-fire was still in force. The quiet was punctuated by cries of discovery, of sorrow as bodies were discovered, of anguish as the injured and dead were recognized. Draco did not pause to listen.

There was a short walk from the apparition field just past Hagrid’s hut to the Slytherin dungeons and Professor Snape’s quarters. Draco and Snape had used it before, a side door that was charmed to recognize only those who were current students or faculty in Slytherin. Draco sprinted toward it, trying to keep Snape’s lightened body steady. He held out Snape’s wand, said the charm that would open the door, and hurried inside, frustrated at even the brief amount of time to navigate Snape’s body awkwardly through the door.

Draco was glad that Snape had never moved to the Headmaster’s quarters, that he had held on to his rooms in the dungeons. He was likewise glad his godfather had given him the password, threatening dire consequences if he ever used it for anything short of an emergency. He couldn’t imagine getting his godfather’s body any further than the man’s dungeon quarters.

Snape’s rooms were dark. Draco pointed the wand at the sconces along the walls and lit them. Making his way to the sofa, he deposited Snape on it and, as if freed from a trap, sprinted toward the room off to the side where Severus kept his potions and supplies. Again with his godfather’s wand, feeling a little less awkward each time he used it, Draco unlocked the door, pushed it open and, with a quiet _"Lumos"_ , scanned the room. Reaching out to the various bottles lining the shelves that covered the walls from floor to ceiling, he grabbed a tall blue one, a clear round bottle, and a square red one. Blood replenisher, antivenin, and a potion to support heart function. None of that would do any good if Severus wasn’t alive for the potions to course through him, however.

He needed the potion. _Put a stopper in death._ Severus would have made it. He would not have been able to have the recipe in hand and yet resist trying it.

Draco scanned the walls, looking for something misplaced, something… His father had taught them both this trick, hiding through misdirection… There. A long, red bottle on its side. Severus would never allow even that much disorder in his private stores. Draco reached toward the bottle, but then stopped himself. That was too easy. That would likely be a trap. He followed the mouth of the bottle, followed line of sight. It pointed to a small clear bottle that appeared to be empty. Draco made to pick it up, but it was stuck, as if affixed to the counter. That would be it. But what would be the mechanism? He reached and removed the stopper.

As soon as he did, the stopper grew, changed colour. It elongated and became reddish. Clever. Draco carefully put the stopper in the red bottle on its side, and one of the shelves clicked loose, causing a segment of wood panelled wall, together with the shelves covering it, to swing slightly ajar. A flush of pride, both in himself for figuring it out, and in his godfather for going beyond the obvious, filled him for a moment, but Draco did not have time to indulge it. Draco pulled the now revealed cabinet door aside, to expose a cabinet twice the width of his shoulders, and three shelves tall. Shelves covered the back of the hidden cabinet door, as well as the back wall, making the storage double deep. Draco scanned them. They were meticulously labelled in Severus’ square lettering: illegal potions, potions with rare ingredients, and potions that were virtually impossible to make, except by a master of Snape’s competence.

Draco just needed the one. He scanned the shelves, feeling the urgency, seeing Snape’s body in his mind. He could be dead already. Snape said the potion had to be administered within a set amount of time. An hour? Half an hour? Draco could not remember. If only he could remember what the potion was called, he would take the risk. It was a strange name, almost as if it called on the Muggle deity. He visualized the page, saw the list of ingredients in his mind, saw the faded handwriting on the page, and then, as if accidentally, glanced upward to happen across the name of the potion. Godot. The potion was called Godot. Snape had laughed when Draco asked why, but wouldn’t tell him.

He had to find it. Snape had to have made it. It had to be there. Draco’s felt anguish rising as he scanned bottle after bottle. His breath was short and shallow with tension, his eyesight narrowed to see just the labels, Gestalt, Gethsemane, Grimoire… no, back. He had it.

Snape had made it.

Draco reached out, carefully, and picked up the bottle, afraid to drop it in his anxiety. He carried it carefully out to his godfather on the sofa, afraid he would spill it despite the stopper in the top.

Dosage. Draco did not have time to find the book with the recipe and dosage. He might already be out of time. He knelt by his godfather, unstoppered the bottle, and shook a drop onto Severus’ lips. He reached for the older man’s neck, searching for the spot where the pulse had thrummed, searched. There was nothing. Draco pulled down Severus’ jaw, opening his mouth, and poured a drop directly on his tongue. Nothing. The pulse had stopped.

Frantic, Draco poured a full swallow’s worth of the potion directly on the back of Severus’ tongue, stroking the front of his throat, hoping it would cause the swallowing reaction like it did for animals.

“Swallow. Swallow. Please swallow…” Draco muttered a desperate litany. But the older man lay still. Draco pointed Snape’s own wand at supine man’s throat and shouted, “swallow, damn you!” A spark of uncontrolled magic rolled like lightning off Draco’s skin, down the wand, and burst with a bright yellow light at the potion master’s throat, leaving behind a circle of burned skin.

Severus Snape swallowed.

He coughed, sputtering some of the draught back, dribbling it across his lips in a smear of red spittle.

And then Draco’s fingers felt it. A slow bump against his fingertips. A pulse. Slow, too slow. Draco reached for the next bottle. He needed to get the poison out. He poured the antivenin into Severus’ open mouth, then with Severus’ wand, cast a charm on the open wound on the potion master’s neck. He saw the poison stream out, and then the dark, oxygen-starved blood.

Next potion: an organ strengthening potion, for the heart, lungs, liver. Draco poured half of the small bottle in.

Severus’ breathing steadied, the pulse became more regular, the time between heartbeats became less.

Draco wanted to close the wound, but he was not controlled enough using another wizard’s wand, especially not _this_ wand, and did not want to risk doing more harm than good. He could scarcely believe he hadn’t caused damage in the spells he _had_ cast. Only the truly desperate would use another wizard’s wand, let alone for something delicate. He had needed to work for weeks to get his mother’s wand to behave, and she was surprisingly compatible with him. Holding his teacher’s wand, Draco still could not help but feel like he was intruding. Severus Snape was extremely protective of his privacy, and Draco was using one of the most intimate tools a wizard owned. Now that Snape was breathing regularly, Draco did not dare use the wand directly on the other man’s body again.

But the older man was dangerously white, and the wound was still leaking blood. It looked clear of venom, so Draco used the wand to rip two strips of cloth from his burned, debris-torn, dust-covered robes, and spelled them clean with a _Scourgify_. He wadded one to press against the wound, and the base of the neck where it met the shoulder, and bound the other around the wadded cloth and under the opposing shoulder.

When it looked like the blood loss had slowed, Draco poured the blood replenishing potion into Snape’s mouth, and watched with wild, crazed joy as the other man swallowed.

Everything he had used, every bit of knowledge on how to use these potions, and on what they did and what to watch for, was due to the man lying before him. Draco was merely an instrument of Severus Snape’s knowledge and skill. This time, Draco found he did not mind.

Still, Severus needed more than Draco could offer. Without a wand under his control, Draco had done all he could. Much as he wanted to stay and stand guard until Severus got better, his godfather was not yet safe. If Draco were to just sit here, it might be only to watch as he d–

No. Draco needed to get a healer.

Draco activated the floo in Snape’s sitting room, but then paused. The Hospital floo might well be active, but Draco rather doubted that he’d be welcome, if he burst through. Chances were he’d be at the end of several curses and hexes if he did. Asking for help for Severus Snape was not likely to provide much in the way of results. No, he needed to do it another way.

With one last look at Snape, Draco took his teacher’s wand, and carefully cast a disillusionment charm on himself. He could feel the tingling of magic flowing on his skin, letting him know that it was working. Still holding the wand out, Draco left Snape’s rooms and ran toward hospital wing. Would they be using it as such? Draco ran, cursing that he could not Apparate here and that the Floo was as good as closed to the likes of him.

The path from dungeon to hospital was not the clear path it once had been and his progress slowed as a result. While the dungeons were still fairly clear of debris, the ground floor and first floor were covered in chunks of rock burst loose from the castle walls, portraits that had fallen off those walls, some shrieking to anyone that passed to set them aright, some empty as the occupants crowded elsewhere, presumably to watch the battle. Draco did not want to see the bodies, bloodied, left behind like litter. He stepped over them when he could, and did his best to avoid looking at their faces lest he recognise a schoolmate, a teacher. Even if it were someone from another house, he was not sure he could bear it.

Well, maybe if it were a Weasel. But Draco’s stomach twisted at even that image.

When he had repaired the vanishing cabinets last year, he had only imagined The Dark Lord’s army of Death Eaters marching through, victorious, cowing the idiots that supported Dumbledore. He had imagined them cringing, recognising the superiority of the Dark Lord and the pure-blood way of life. He imagined the recognition he would get for being the one to make it happen. But after awhile, there was no illusion of victory, only a desperate attempt to save his parents’ lives. Even then, he could not have imagined this battlefield, nor could he now equate it with his school. This—carnage—this was not noble, this was not victory. And it should not have happened at Hogwarts. Hogwarts was for students to learn, to taunt each other, and compete with one another. It was for them to grow into their power. For all that Dumblebore was a daft do-gooder a few candles short of a cake, for all the ways the school had treated Slytherin like the squib stepchild no one wanted to talk about, Hogwarts was still – Hogwarts. A place where Dumbledore had offered Draco a second chance, even while the old man was at the end of Draco’s wand. Hogwarts was where Draco had the chance to learn, to excel, to show off what he was capable of, albeit coming in second to a bloody Mudblood. Draco’s father had never forgiven him for that.

He climbed the stairs to third level, the staircase suddenly lurching sideways as he neared the top, and he had to wait for it to settle before he burst off it, into the corridor. He could see sky. The walls here had been crushed in places, jagged edges with large openings. Pieces of the ceiling had come crashing to the floor. The direct path was blocked, so he made his way around, down another corridor, nervously across a bridge high up above the middle courtyard.

There was no one alive in the corridors, but he could hear that the battle had started again. Everyone was outside, and the Dark Lord was shouting something about Potter. The sound of the response made Draco wonder what had happened. But he couldn’t think about Potter now, he had to get to the Hospital wing.

As he got closer, he saw people again, ahead of him, in the main corridor to the hospital rooms. Some people carried bodies, others helped friends as they limped along, with burns, cuts, broken limbs, or disfigured body parts.

Now that he was here, Draco needed to be careful. He could still feel the charm on his skin, causing eyes to look away. _No one important here._ He knew anyone who saw him would see different features than his, would not see his begrimed white-blond hair, or face or body shape. Nevertheless, Draco ducked behind a statue, into an alcove in the wall, out of the way of the people milling about the hall.

They were all against the Dark Lord. And while Draco knew he could not fight for the—for _Voldemort_ (for he was no longer a lord of any sort, dark or not, that Draco wanted to follow, after what he had done to Snape), no one else knew that. If they were to see past his Disillusionment charm, not only would he not get what he came for, he would get a first-hand experience in a lovely array of hexes and curses, and possibly a reserved room with all the amenities at Azkaban.

Unless Voldemort won. And Draco had no idea what Voldemort would do with him. Nor, at this point, did he want to know. His only concern right now was getting the best healer he could for his godfather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter, his friends, his enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to JK Rowling.
> 
> Comments are always welcome. I find they inspire me to write further, knowing someone else cares about the story.


	4. Aftermath Part 1: The Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ivyingarden, who beta read this chapter and continues to encourage me to write!

**Aftermath Part 1: The Healing**

 _May 2, 1998_

He saw Madame Pomfrey pass the door several times, issuing orders to people who had volunteered to help, students too young to fight in the battle, or adults trained as Healers. He did not recognize the adults who were being consulted as healers. Perhaps some had been sent from St Mungo’s. That would be a good thing; Draco doubted that Madame Pomfrey would willingly leave the hospital wing to help Snape if she were the only healer available. But if there were several from St Mungo’s, he had a chance.

Waiting until there was a brief lull in the bustle into the hospital rooms, Draco checked to feel the slight prickle on his skin that confirmed the Disillusionment charm was still active, and emerged from behind the statue. He ducked into the same room he had last seen Madame Pomfrey enter. She continued to a small office through a door on the far wall, and Draco followed, closing the door behind him. What luck!

“I need your help.” Draco dropped the Disillusionment charm. He held Snape’s wand ready, but did not point it at her.

Madame Pomfrey turned around, looking calm, but Draco had seen her jump at the sound of his voice. He opened his posture, trying his best to look unthreatening.

It hurt to see her glaring so coldly at him. She had always been kind to him when he had come to get medical attention. Of course, he had come for medical attention often. He didn’t admit to anyone, least of all Madame Pomfrey, that he liked it when she fussed over him.

“You will have to wait your turn, Mr Malfoy.” She cast a cold gaze at him, glancing up and down. “There are people in far greater need than you.”

For a second, Draco could not figure out what she meant. He was not severely injured. Then he chanced to catch sight of himself in the mirror behind her, and noticed that his skin was red and blistered in places, from the fire, and he had cuts and scratches and the occasional bruise scattered across his arms, and face, and probably his legs as well. He was filthy from crawling through the cave, his hair was lank and darkened with grime, and had Severus’ blood splattered on his robes, especially on his shoulder where he had been carrying his godfather. Draco had not stopped long enough to be aware of the pain. Now that he had, the burn from the heat of the Fiendfyre _stung_.

“You don’t understand. It is not for me.”

“You _dare_ to come here for help for one of your _Death Eater_ friends? After they have sent patient after patient here? Your schoolmates are _dying!_ I swore that I would care for all who needed it, but when I see the lives you people have destroyed…”

Draco had never heard her quite so emotional. “It’s Headmaster Snape!” He interrupted her.

“Snape!” Madam Pomfrey spat. “After what he let into Hogwarts! You were here this past year… do you seriously expect me to leave here where good, brave people need my help, to help that _murderer?”_

“I don’t care what Professor Snape has done, or not done. But the Dar — Vol-Voldemort tried to kill him. He almost died. He could still be dying. Please, you have to help him. _Please.”_ Draco was proud his voice did not crack, but the need was clear in his voice. He told himself he was letting the emotion through to get his way, but he if he were honest with himself, he thought it would have broken through anyway.

Madam Pomfrey stared at Draco. The coldness in her eyes did not abate. After a few minutes, she blinked, and a shudder ran down her body. When she returned her gaze to him, she squared her shoulders as if making a decision. “Where is he?”

Draco suddenly had a thought. “You won’t turn him in?”

“I can’t promise that!” A look of pain crossed her face. “He murdered the Headmaster. He will have to be held accountable for his actions.”

Draco’s head ticked back stubbornly. “I can’t take you to him if you’ll only turn him in. You know he won’t get a fair trial. They’ll send him to _Azkaban._ Death would be preferable to the Kiss.”

“We don’t have time for this. Either lead me to him or let me return to my other patients.”

“Just promise me…”

“What?”

Draco could not think. He had so little to bargain with. The Dark Lord had taken the Dementors away from Azkaban. It was possible the Ministry would not be able to round them up again. But Draco did not want to rely on what was _possible._ Maybe he could Obliviate her after she healed Snape. Draco looked at the wand in his hand. He did not know if he could trust his skill with it for such a delicate spell, much less against a woman who had been kind to him when few others were. He knew he would do what was necessary, but… he hoped it would not be necessary. When did he start relying on hope? He felt very foolish when he continued.

“Just promise me you’ll give him a _chance.”_

Madame Pomfrey paused, searching out something in Draco’s face.

Her voice was a bit softer when she agreed. “Yes, I can promise that. Now where is he?”

Draco relented. His godfather needed care, and he was not skilled enough to give it. He just hoped the man would forgive him. “In his rooms. I left him there. I could not close the wound; I don’t have my wand anymore.” He noticed her gaze at the wand in his hand. “This is Professor Snape’s.”

Madam Pomfrey turned to the freestanding wooden cabinet along one wall, opened the door, and pulled a few bottles from its shelves, together with winding bandages, a notebook, and a few other items Draco did not recognise.

“Well, come on then.” She grabbed him by the wrist, leaving him no time to recast the Disillusionment charm, and dragged him out of the office and into the larger room they had passed through. At the sight of Draco, wands came out, pointing directly at him. It was unnerving to be in the middle of a circle of bristling wands.

Madam Pomfrey ignored them, pulled him to the open hearth in the room, grabbed some floo powder from a pot standing near it, and tossed it in. The flames burst green. “Professor Snape’s Rooms,” she murmured so quietly that Draco was sure he was the only one that would hear. She stepped in, and Draco was pulled in with her by the firm grip on his wrist.

He steadied himself from the spinning of floo transport, wiped the soot off but leaving smears of soot and grime on his clothes and arms. He imagined what his father would say to such a display, but there were things more important than the Malfoy bearing at present.

Severus lay where Draco had left him, but his breathing was more ragged, and his skin seemed flushed, feverish.

Madam Pomfrey let go of Draco’s hand, either ignoring him or forgetting he was here, and held her wand over Headmaster Snape’s body, casting diagnostic spells.

“I am not doing this for _you,_ or for _him,_ but for the sake of my oath.” Madame Pomfrey commented to him abruptly. “What did you do to him?”

“It wasn’t me!” Draco protested.

“I mean, what did you give him?”

Draco hesitated, but knew she would need to know to help Professor Snape. “I found his potion of Godot.” Draco whispered. And then antivenin, and—“

“Why an antivenin? What happened?”

“It was Nagini. She bit him. I believe Vo- Voldemort commanded it. For her to kill him.” He sounded incoherent even to himself.

Madame Pomfrey glanced sharply at him, and then dropped her gaze to make a notation in her medical journal. “Continue.”

“After the antivenin I gave him a blood replenisher. And an organ strengthener.”

“Be more specific, child. Which antivenin? Which blood replenisher, which organ strengthener?”

He told her the dosages and the specific potions, detailing each drop and attempt, indicating each phial as he spoke. She made a few more notes in her journal.

“Let me see those.”

He gathered the bottles she had indicated from the table and gave them to her.

Madam Pomfrey’s eyes widened at the Potion of Godot, as if seeing the bottle with its label awakened her to what it was, where Draco’s words had not. “You gave him this? You realize what damage you would have done if he his injuries had not been fatal? Are you sure—” She asked him.

“His pulse had stopped.”

* * *

Madame Pomfrey paled. She had not agreed with anything Headmaster Snape had done this last year, and even now found it difficult to believe that the man she had worked with for 18 years had become the man she saw this past year.

She had thought she knew the man. He came to her when he was spying for Albus, whenever the punishments from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named exceeded the potency of the potions Severus had on hand. They would talk, and he would confide what he could. Not the details that were reserved for Albus and the Order, but his own concerns. He never spoke directly, instead only obliquely mentioning how events around him and his own actions affected him, but she knew that speaking with her was part of why he came to her, sometimes even when he had potions to relieve his pains and heal his injuries.

She had been shocked when she discovered he had killed Albus. She knew Albus was dying, of course. She knew of the curse. She and Severus had worked together to retard its progress. But its effects on Albus continued to get stronger, and Albus continued to weaken. When it was discovered that Albus was dead, that Severus and young Malfoy had disappeared, she did not know what to make of it. And then poor Harry said he had seen Severus kill Albus. That Severus was a murderer.

Poppy had felt betrayed, as if their friendship was merely a part of the ruse, part of a dark plan. But after the funeral, she had a chance to think. Albus had been dying, and she knew he would sacrifice anything to see Voldemort’s evil set down. Even his own life. It was possible…

So when the school year began again, and Severus returned to be Headmaster, she hoped he would come to her as before. To confide, in his oblique way, the pressures he was under. But Severus never came to see her. He stopped talking to her the day Albus died. And the behaviour Severus allowed as headmaster—she could not juxtapose that picture with the man she had known.

She kept to the hospital wing that year, rarely venturing out. There were violent injuries to be healed, more than in even the clumsiest of Quidditch seasons, significantly more than the average, even skewed by the Potter boy's all too frequent visits in past years. There had been Cruciatus victims in her infirmary. In a school! Cast by teachers, sometimes by students! And regretfully, Poppy had decided that Severus was not the man she thought she knew. The Severus she knew would not have allowed that to happen.

But He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had tried, had nearly succeeded in killing him. Why would he want to kill such a staunch supporter, one who had betrayed everyone he knew for the sake of his master? The thought gave her just enough pause to re-awaken her sense of duty.

She knew that for the Godot potion to work, the waiting had to be almost over. It needed to be administered at the point of death to, to stop it. He had been close. It did not bring back life, merely prevented death. If administered too early, it could cause permanent damage, locking the spirit of the person between life and death. Administered at just the right time, it stoppered up the rip that let the living out. Madame Pomfrey had heard Severus’ opening day speech enough times to know exactly which potion he meant when he said “put a stopper in death.” And she would have to pull that stopper out. But first, she would heal the body.

She pulled aside the clumsy wrapping around shoulder and neck. Directing her wand at it, she cast a spell. “There is no venom left in the wound,” she commented.

* * *

Draco recognized the other two spells she cast, one was to knit the skin together, and another was a general diagnosis. He had been on the receiving end of those spells many times.

Draco sat at the edge of Professor Snape’s chair, a large chair upholstered in leather dyed forest green. When she cast, he could see the wound closing, could see his mentor’s chest rising and falling. Relief washed through him at the even breathing. He felt like a marionette that had just had the strings cut, sagging onto the chair, breathing heavily.

“He may be out for a few hours. I will need to cast another spell on him, one that will balance his magical energy again. It has been… disturbed.”

Draco nodded.

“For this spell to work, Mr Malfoy, he needs to be left completely alone. You may not return for at least four hours, lest you cause him irreparable damage. And you will need to leave his wand. The spell requires it, for the best chance of success.”

Draco did not want to be wandless again. He knew he could not keep this wand, but the thought of being out in the battle without a wand again made him deeply nervous. But it was his godfather’s wand, and Snape needed it. Draco knew all too well the unbalanced feeling of being without his wand. Reluctantly, he bypassed Madame Pomfrey’s outstretched hand, and placed the wand on his godfather’s chest, adjusting the older man’s hand so it held the wand in place. He lifted his own hand, but did not step back, looking down on his godfather, noticing the even breathing with a slight glimmer of relief. But Snape did not look good in any other way.

“Headmaster Snape will still be here when you get back. And either he will be alive or he will be dead. Either way, there is nothing more you can do. It is time for you to leave.”

“But—“

“While you stand there, you delay me from doing what I must do. Your risk his chance of survival. And I have _other_ patients that need my skills.” She nodded at the fire place through which they had come, making it clear that she would be leaving as soon as the spell was cast.

Her tone may have implied ‘ _more worthy’_ patients, patients that had not been Death Eaters. It could have been something else entirely. Draco felt a burn of emotion that might have been anger, but could well have been something less righteous that he could not recognise.

“But—”

“It is not a spell to interfere with. There can be no other magical fields in the room while the spell balances his. Go. Now.” Madame Pomfrey pointed at the door, and her stance made it clear that she would not do another thing for the Headmaster while Draco was present.

He exited the room, pushed out not by magic but by the force of her will, and Madame Pomfrey wasted no time in waving the door closed behind him. He could feel the gust of air against his cheeks, as he turned to get one more glimpse of his godfather before the door shut. Had he been a few inches closer, the door would have hit him in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter, his friends, his enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to JK Rowling.
> 
> Comments are always welcome. I find they inspire me to write further, knowing someone else cares about the story.


	5. Aftermath Part 2: A Malfoy Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ivyingarden for all the help making this a better fic! She patiently helps me brainstorm (with some great ideas to throw into the cauldron), is fabulous with canon, has a knack for language, and keeps at me to "write write write".
> 
> Note: This chapter follows book canon (except for the one element I have changed). For those who have only seen the movies, the Malfoy scene during the battle at the end of Deathly Hallows 7.2 played out differently.

**Aftermath Part 2: A Malfoy Reunion**

 _May 2, 1998_

Draco felt lost. It seemed as if one of the pillars of his life had just been pulled away. Snape had been steady, even at those times when his father was not. He had pushed, supported and protected Draco. Snape was driven, and drove others. He was cold to almost everyone, but Draco had seen both fire and affection in the man’s eyes.

He had nearly died. Despite all Draco had done, his godfather could be dying even now, and it was out of his hands.

Exhaustion washed over Draco as he stared at the closed door. There was a battle being fought, he could hear bits of it. He felt no desire to fight in it, not for either side, even if he hadn’t been wandless.

A slight prick of obligation made his stomach clench. His parents were wandless too, and it was – at least partially – because of him. He was the one that took, and then _lost_ , his mother’s wand.

He felt the sudden need to find his parents. They would be here, Voldemort would not have left anyone behind. Everyone had been needed, to fight in the battle, and to witness the Dark Lord’s victory. The students who had received the Mark had received last minute alerts by a pre-arranged code, telling them to be ready to take part in the battle.

He probably should avoid being caught. But without a wand, he could see no way to do both: to find his parents and to stay safe. He thought briefly about finding some of his Slytherin cohorts for safety in numbers, but the memory of the Death Eater’s words earlier made his position clear. He was not protected. Neither side valued Draco Malfoy. That was going to be their mistake, he promised himself.

He had no wand. However, he was a Malfoy. He would not cringe.

He squared his shoulders, pulled his head up, and. looking straight ahead, and walked away from his godfather’s suite, not seeing where he was going except to avoid obstacles. He did not look anyone in the face. At first there were few people, but once he left the dungeons, the halls became more crowded. He paid no attention to the startled gazes, the nervous wands following his movement. He just kept walking. When he climbed the stairs to the main floor, he heard cheering. His godfather might be dying, despite all Draco had done to heal him, and there was cheering. There was a quality to the cheers that told him that it was not Death Eaters cheering. He supposed Voldemort had been defeated. Draco was too numb to feel anything at the thought. Potter had probably killed him. Again. Potter would probably be cheering with the rest of them. Was probably being cheered _by_ the rest of them. Potter had won. And by this, Draco knew he had lost.

Draco suddenly turned toward the tumult. If they were cheering, that means they were rounding up Death Eaters, those they had not killed, those that had not escaped. Draco did not want to escape just then. He needed to find his parents. _Let there be something left of my life._

* * *

As he got closer to the Great Hall, from which jubilant noise could be heard from several corridors away, Draco found it harder to avoid obstacles, in this case, people. He kept his walk a determined stride, different than his usually lazy amble. He was going into the heart of enemy territory.

He was not sure what he expected. The jubilation, yes. The crowds of people, students he knew, Aurors in their distinctive robes, other adults he knew from his father ranting about them. A whole mess of Weasleys. They were all pounding each other on the back, hugging each other, clustering around a dark haired person Draco would recognize in his sleep. They were touching the bloody Boy Who Lived as if he were a fucking god, as if his mere touch was equivalent to spells of protection and abundance, all rolled into one.

A small group were unceremoniously carrying a body off through a doorway Draco had seen the teachers come through for meals. Voldemort was dead. Severus was alive (he hoped), and Voldemort was dead. Draco recognised the pasty, green-tinted skin, and wondered how that creature had managed to sway people of value, people like his father. And at the thought, he saw them. His parents. They sat at one of the house tables, which had been shoved toward one end of the room, their heads bent, holding each other’s hands. His mother’s left eye had been blackened, bruises stretched from her eye, down her cheek, to meet up with one spanning her neck and disappearing beneath her robes. His father, normally so elegant, had scratches and cuts that had not been healed across his face had hands. They both looked somehow broken.

A wash of hatred and fury flowed through Draco, burning his skin as hot as the Fiendfyre had. No one had the right to make his parents look like that. And the worst part was, it wasn’t Potter’s group that had brought them low. His parents were being ignored in all the elation that surrounded them. It had been Voldemort.

He remembered his shock over midwinter and spring holidays, at the way his parents behaved around Voldemort. His father, once he had finally been broken out of Azkaban, cringed and bowed before him, kissing the hem of Dark Lord’s robes. His mother just bowed her head and did as the Dark Lord asked, acting the hostess for the Death Eaters who came to give reports and receive instructions. Draco knew they were being punished for his failures. Every Cruciatus inflicted on his father, Draco felt. Voldemort had used his parents as hostel keepers, taking the manor as his own. His parents had _let_ him.

Each injury, each curse, each degradation had made Draco that much more desperate to return to the Dark Lord’s good side. Then Draco had found Snape. Seeing his parents broken like this, seeing how Snape had been attacked by the very Master he followed, it all became clear to Draco. Voldemort _had_ no good side. Voldemort used people, and cared for no cause but his own.

Voldemort had used them up and spat them out. And his parents had _let him do it._

As Draco made his way with accelerating footsteps toward them, he found himself convinced of one thing. He would never again let another choose his way for him. He would never give his will over to another.

He stood in front of his parents, close enough to touch them, not saying anything. It somehow did not matter if anyone saw him. No one was paying attention anyway.

After a moment, his mother, then his father, looked up. Their eyes widened, and he was grabbed, pulled toward them, pulled to sit with them, in a gesture he would never have expected. The hands that grabbed him, the arms that hugged him, they were his father’s.

* * *

Draco saw the approaching group first. The crowds had started to disperse, Potter had disappeared. No other Slytherins were in the hall. No Death Eaters were here, except for the three of them. Draco guessed it was their turn. Three people in Aurors’ robes approached, a tall bald, man with rich, dark skin, a shorter man with sandy hair, and a smaller, round faced woman.

He touched his father’s shoulder. Lucius looked up, straightened his shoulders, and stood up. His mother remained seated, her posture becoming erect as if she were lifted by wires, lifting her face, uncaring that she revealed the darkly mottled bruising to the light. Draco felt a fierce glow of pride, as his father and mother gazed with cool dispassion at the oncoming Aurors. _This_ was what it meant to be a Malfoy.

“Mr Malfoy, Mrs Malfoy, Mr Malfoy,” the Auror in front said, nodding to each of them in turn. The two Aurors behind him had their wands at the ready, but not pointed directly at the Malfoys. The one in front also had his wand out, but at rest. Draco did not fool himself that the man would be incapable of bringing it to bear at the least provocation.

“Shacklebolt.” His father said the word with absolute calm. His voice was empty, and Draco heard something that he had never heard before. Underneath the calm, his father had given up. But the façade still held. Habits of a lifetime gave his father the patterns of “how to deal with members of the government.” An outsider would not have noticed. But Draco did.

“I will need your wands.” Shacklebolt gestured, and one of the other Aurors, the younger, round faced woman. She looked like she’d have been more suited to running a florist shop, or teaching children too young for Hogwarts. Her face was steady, however, as was her hand as she held it out in calm expectation. Shacklebolt looked pointedly at his father’s walking stick. Of course the wand was registered; it was not a secret wand. It was a trademark, part of his father’s presence.

Lucius Malfoy nodded and offered his dragon-headed walking stick as if offering food to a guest, as if it were a point of courtesy.

Shacklebolt tipped the serpent’s head of the walking stick, and looked inside. “Your wand is not here, Mr Malfoy. I’m afraid I must insist—”

“The Dark Lord took it for his own use, some time ago. He saw no… need for me to have it.” Lucius’ voice was quiet, seemingly devoid of emotion. But Draco heard the thrum underneath. His father was in there, not just in the calm of the voice, and the pride that made him stand tall, but in the fury that Draco knew to listen for. It was buried deep, but still there. Draco could hope.

“And your wife’s? And young Mr Malfoy’s?”

Draco kept the scowl from his face with great effort. Young Mr Malfoy indeed.

“My wife does not have hers on her at the moment. I believe my son—“

“It is gone. Most likely burnt.” Draco looked at his mother as he said it, and because he was looking for it he saw the momentary pull on her features, as she took that in. Draco knew how it felt to lose a wand. To have his own wand not only taken, but destroyed, would have devastated him. Potter still had Draco’s, was _using_ it. There was a chance, a remote chance, that Draco could get it back. His mother’s pale, bruised face became impassive after that slight twitch.

“And what happened to your wand, Mr Malfoy?” Shacklebolt spoke directly to him for the first time.

“Potter took it. That’s when my mother lent me hers.”

“Well then. My apologies, but I must verify that you do not have wands in your possession.” Draco’s father’s eyes glittered like ice, and his mother went still. “By your leave…” Draco moved away from the table, keeping his eyes on the Aurors and his parents. His mother rose with quiet grace, and joined her husband. Shacklebolt pointed his wand to each of them in turn, and spoke a charm. Nothing happened.

“Thank you for your cooperation. I’m sure you understand, we cannot leave you to move freely around the school. As you did not actively fight against us _today_ ,” the emphasis in the man’s voice on the last word indicated his certainty that none of them were innocent, “we have arranged for you to be detained without extreme discomfort. If you would follow me.” Shacklebolt turned on his heel and walked away, the two other Aurors gestured with their wands for the three Malfoys to follow the black Auror.

They would have time, later, to react, once he could figure what the proper reaction was. At least they were not being separated. They were being treated respectfully, which Draco did not expect.

The room to which they were lead was a classroom, but one that had had the windows charmed away, and the door warded to prevent entrance or exit without knowledge of the password. Several of the desks were transfigured into comfortable chairs, and one table had some water and bread. Prison fare, perhaps, but it looked fresh.

“This is only temporary, until we find more appropriate _accommodation_ for you.” The sandy haired Auror’s face twisted as he spoke. He paused. “We are making arrangements for you to be detained comfortably, here in the castle, although it may fall short of _your_ standards.” The Auror sneered. “Until we have time to do so, you will have to make do with what this.”

Draco felt the wards engage as the door closed. There was a sense of being enclosed, as if the airflow had ceased. Draco repressed the momentary claustrophobia.

Lucius Malfoy turned to his son. “What can you tell me?” Draco saw the light of his father’s eyes. He was there, he was engaged.

“You saw more than I did, I think. Were you here when he– when the Dark Lord was killed?”

“We saw it. We even heard it. Do you know _why_ Potter was able to vanquish the Dark Lord, Draco? Do you know what you could have done if you had followed through, even once?”

Draco looked at his father, surprised. Ah, so it was going to be _this_ game. Part of him was glad his father was capable of the intensity in his voice, even if it was aimed at him. The emptiness he had seen increasingly over the school holidays had receded for a bit. Draco would gladly take the vitriol if only to have his father engaged with him again for a little while longer. His father. Strong. Angry. Malfoy.

“The Dark Lord had the Elder Wand in his hand, Draco. He expected to be able to use it. But do you know why it did not work? Harry Potter knew you had disarmed Dumbledore. You disarmed the old fool while he was holding the Elder Wand, did you realise that, Draco?” His father’s voice was quiet. “You could have picked up that wand, Draco. You would have been its master. But when you allowed Harry Potter to take your wand, you allowed Harry Potter to become master of the Dark Lord’s wand. You allowed Harry Potter to be master of the Elder Wand.”

Draco felt himself grow cold. It sounded like his father was blaming him for Voldemort’s demise. And his mother just sat there, looking at him, with that impassive face.

Something twisted inside Draco. He could not bear what Voldemort had done to his parents, to Snape. The cold in the pit of his stomach suddenly burned. “I’m glad.” Draco said quietly. “If I had even a little to do with his destruction, Father, I’m glad.” He saw his father’s face pale, even further than the already white features. He saw the eyes tighten.

Draco continued, looking away from his father’s eyes, afraid of what he might find there, but unwilling to stop what he had to say. These thoughts had been growing on him for a while. He had refused them, fought them, avoided them. He had made unreasonable vows and promises, and ignored what he had come to understand.

“He was not worth following. He was not worth having _Malfoys_ follow him. He had no control, he acted on his emotions. What kind of purebloods are we to follow that? He tortured his followers even more than his enemies. And why? Because we let him. Because we were nearby! I saw him cast the Cruciatus curse on _you_ , and on _mother!_ You accepted it, and _still_ followed him.”

“Are you finished?” Lucius Malfoy’s voice was flat. Draco had not heard the cold intensity in his father’s voice, or the power he imbued in just those few words, in all the time Voldemort had infested Malfoy Manor.

“For the moment. Father.”

Lucius approached his son. “I will overlook your… lack of respect, as well as your lack of insight. You lost sight of our long-term goals. I will overlook it, because you have expressed an excellent strategy for getting out of _this_. Lucius’ hand gestured to encompass the windowless, locked and warded room they found themselves in. “You will say exactly that to the Aurors, and to whoever is in charge of this school. You will say whatever you need to say to keep your place here. We find ourselves in an unfortunate situation, but it will not last. And Draco. Do not speak with such disrespect for me, or my choices, _ever_ again.” His voice was quiet, almost dead. Draco heard the thrum.

Draco could feel his father’s breath with each word, in tight, intense bursts against his cheeks. Lucius turned his back, and selected one of the tables to sit on, the wooded benches being too low to the ground for one to be able to sit on them with any dignity, and the upholstered furniture that had been transfigured from desks and chairs were not only too low, but also too …deep, to be able to regain an upright posture once one had seated oneself in them. When he had arranged himself on the table, he turned to look back at his son.

We came to the battle hoping to find you, and you were not there. Where were you?”

Draco could not tell if his father was asking after his son, or asking for information, or gathering something else to use against him.

“I was following Potter. It was in my mind to capture him and bring him to the Dark Lord, at first. After my—your,” he nodded to his mother, “wand was burnt, I followed him for information. Some way to help the Dark Lord’s cause, to cause him to look upon the Malfoys with favour again.

“And how did my wand come to be burnt?” His mother’s voice was deceptively calm.

“Crabbe cast Fiendfyre. It got out of hand. He… he burnt in it.”

Lucius closed his eyes. “I shall tell his father, if I get the opportunity.” Narcissa came to sit next to her husband, and placed a hand on his back.

When Lucius opened his eyes, the spark of his personality had receded, his eyes revealing nothing, empty.

* * *

 

 **Interlude – Severus Snape**

 _May 2, 1998_

Severus Snape was irritated.

He was not dead.

That was probably the worst of it.

In addition, he could not move. There was an irksome buzzing around him, but he was not sure if it was heard by his ears or in his mind. He ached, and had pains. That last was not unusual; the Dark Lord did not hesitate to use the Cruciatus Curse liberally. It was probably the only liberal thing about him.

The echo of pain in his neck was not as severe as he would have expected, if he had expected to feel anything at this point. He had fulfilled his role, had informed the Potter brat what he needed to know – and here, Snape cringed to think of the brat having access to those memories. It had been necessary; it had been the only way to get the information to the boy by that point. Potter could not fail to recognise the silvery blue quicksilver fluid; he had certainly had familiarity with it from invading his privacy. But would Potter do as he was supposed to and view his Potion Master’s intimate memories? Would he do as he was supposed to and submit himself to slaughter? Snape doubted it. It was one thing to charge with Gryffindorish foolhardiness into danger, where he could rely on being fawned over it later. It was clearly another thing to give himself over to an enemy to be tortured and killed, with no rescue in sight, and none to watch but other enemies.

How had Potter gotten there, at the critical moment? Why had Potter been there? The boy had the stupidest luck. Find the most dangerous spot, and Potter would be there. Naturally, other people would have to save him. Only this time, if Albus’ planning came to fruition, no one would be there to save his precious Golden Boy.

He did not know what to think of that. He would not have expected it. Albus used Potter as ruthlessly as he had always used Severus himself. Potter had been set up as thoroughly as Severus had. Snape felt a deep unquiet at the thought of having anything in common with James Potter’s son.

Snape was exhausted. He could not open his eyes. He could feel the buzzing against his skin, in his ears, in his mind. He retreated from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter, his friends, his enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to JK Rowling.
> 
> Comments are always welcome. I find they inspire me to write further, knowing someone else cares about the story.


	6. Aftermath Part 3: After the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ivyingarden for all the help making this a better fic!
> 
> Apologies for the delay in posting this. Life got busy for awhile.
> 
> Note: This chapter is the first of the story that happens _after_ the events of The Deathly Hallows.

**Aftermath Part 3**

 _May 2, 1998_

Harry, Hermione and Ron descended the stairs from Dumbledore’s office. Harry could not imagine it being anyone else’s office, even though he knew Snape had used it all last year, and someone else would be using it next year. Harry found himself reaching to touch the gargoyle as they passed, as if for luck. The gargoyle permitted it.

The sounds of the battle had given way to sounds of celebration. They came in distant bursts, partly from the great hall, but also from some of the towers, in echoes of freedom. Occasionally, Harry heard a cry that did not sound like celebration, but he did not have the energy to consider the cause of those.

Peeves swooped by, still singing, but this time it was something along the lines of “really most sincerely dead…” Harry wondered where he had heard that before. Peeves must have run out of his own invention. That alone made the day one for the history books, even if there had not been that _other_ matter.

“He’s really dead.” Harry said quietly.

“Yeah.” Ron said, satisfaction evident in his voice.

“You did it, Harry.”

Harry put his arms around his two best friends. “We really did it. We three, and Neville. And everyone.”

“I bet there’s a party in Gryffindor tower.” Ron commented, wistfully. “It’d be nice to see everyone.”

Harry knew what Ron meant. After months on the road, with only each other for company, the noise and colours of the Gryffindor common room would be… welcoming. Besides, Ron was due for some recognition. He had destroyed a Horcrux. As had Harry, and Hermione, and Dumbledore, and Neville. Without any of them, they might not have won the war.

“Let’s go,” he said.

The fat lady let them in without even a password. The noise level doubled as they passed through the hole behind the portrait. Neville was there, with something that looked to Harry like crepe paper draped around his head, patches of his skin the fresh pink of newly healed burns. Harry winced at the memory of the sorting hat, and Neville, burning. He was glad Neville was none the worse for wear, and had the odd fond hope that the sorting hat likewise survived.

Past and present students filled the common room: he recognized Lee Jordan, Oliver Wood, and Seamus Finnegan. Ron was the only Weasley. There were fewer girls, but Harry saw Angelina and some girls from other houses: Hannah Abbott and Luna, among others. A lot of DA members were crowded into the room.

The noise redoubled as people saw the three of them, and they were half-deafened by the cheers and whoops.

For all that it was early morning, there were bottles and barrels of Butterbeer, and random bits of food that had either been summoned, or brought by house elves, or squirreled away from care packages.

It felt good. The noise, the people, most of whom he knew and had worked with, it all felt right. He and Ron grabbed some food, Hermione grabbed a sofa, and the three collapsed into it and ate, letting the noise wash over them. They were home.

Half an hour later, the noise was unabated, the party was in full swing, with food, and drink, and Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, but the three heroes lay asleep, heads lolling on each other’s shoulders.

   


* * *

Molly Weasley found the three of them later that day and woke them up just enough to bundle them through the Floo back to the Burrow, overriding Harry’s indistinct protests that he did not want to intrude. Harry blearily wondered if the Burrow had been connected to the Floo Network the whole time, even with all the restrictions, or if Arthur had somehow managed to reconnect it after the battle.

He woke the next morning to the clatter and aroma of Molly cooking, and the rumble of Ron’s snoring. He did not quite remember climbing the stairs to Ron’s room, but he was back in the familiar camp bed, and was wearing a pair of pyjamas. It seemed to be morning, but he felt rested. Was it still the same day?

Harry put on the robe that was usually left on the hook near the cot for him, taking comfort in the idea of a robe left just for him. He shambled down to use the loo, and a quick cleansing charm on his teeth made him feel slightly more human. He wondered briefly where his rucksack was. Somehow, it was always more satisfying using a toothbrush than the charm. He speculated on whether the charm could be modified to leave his mouth tingly and minty, like toothpaste.

By the time he got downstairs, Mr Weasley, Ginny, and Charlie were sitting at the breakfast table, and there was enough food set out to feed the entire order, and their relatives. There were bangers and eggs, oatmeal, toast, grilled tomatoes and onions, kippers and pumpkin juice. Mr Weasley looked up from the Prophet and gave Harry a warm, welcoming smile.

“Look who’s finally awake! Good morning, sleepyhead!” Mrs Weasley commented as she levitated something that smelled sweet out of the oven. Harry sat at one edge of one of the identical wooden benches on either side of the table, next to Ginny. She glanced at him, as if she wanted to say something, but then looked back down to her breakfast, as Mrs Weasley, with several flicks of her wand, put some of everything onto a plate for him.

“There you go, Harry dear, eat up.”

The smell and clatter of breakfast brought down more people than Harry had ever seen in the Burrow, with the exception of Bill and Fleur’s wedding.

“How long did we sleep?” Harry asked, a bit sheepishly.

“Well, _you_ slept almost twenty-four hours, I think, Harry. You must have been worn out. Ron and Hermione both woke up for a bit last night, just long enough for dinner, but we couldn’t wake you. We decided you needed the sleep.”

Harry nodded. He had not felt this rested since – well, since he could remember. This last year had been particularly gruelling, but he had never had the chance to truly rest. Whether it was chores at the Dursleys’, or nightmares, or his scar burning with pain whenever Voldemort got angry, fear of returning to the Dursleys’, or grief at way too many deaths… The grief was still there. But… Voldemort would not cause any more deaths. Harry no longer needed to dread the future. He only needed to grieve the past. That was enough. Harry did not know how he felt. The grief was heavy. But there were no more expectations on him. That was a particularly light feeling. The conflicting senses left him empty. Waiting.

They ate in silence, to the sound of cooking and the crinkle of the Prophet. Hermione came down and sat near Mr Weasley with a murmured “morning” as she ate absently and she scribbled notes on a parchment near to hand thoroughly preoccupied. The feather of the quill occasionally tickled across her face and she scrunched her nose at it. Harry briefly smiled to himself. Hermione never changed. They had just returned from months on the road, survived torture and imprisonment, then ‘vanquished the Dark Lord’ in a pitched battle; they had not been in school all year and thus had no homework, but Hermione found something to take notes about. Somehow, that was comforting.

Percy appeared a bit later, and perched tentatively at one end of the bench, away from Harry. His movements were tight and careful. He kept his face lowered as he served himself small portions from the dishes near him. It looked to Harry as if Percy were trying to make himself as small and unobtrusive as possible. It was quite a change from the Percy that had tried to foist his views on everyone, so certain he was right.

Everyone fell silent as George entered. He sat unseeing as Molly put a full plate in front of him. Harry wished with all his being that Fred were there, and that the two would pull a prank, even on Percy. The silence was unbearable.

Fortunately, Ron lumbered down the stairs not too long after that. “Breakfast!”

Hermione looked up at that point. “Mrs Weasley, I can guarantee you that Ron thought of your cooking quite fondly—“

“And frequently!” Harry added.

“—While we were on our search.” Hermione finished.

Ron flushed a deep red, but still heaped his plate full with some of everything within reach. “Mum’s a good cook!” He said defensively.

“You three never had a chance to tell us what you did all these months.” Molly Weasley started.

So they told her, and the rest of the Weasleys, of their trip. Of the café and how they were almost caught. Of breaking into the ministry, and running into Mr Weasley while under Polyjuice. Of almost getting caught again, at Grimmauld place. Of moving camp each night. Of Hermione researching. Of her clever bottomless beaded bag. Of Bathilda Bagshot, and how she was really Nagini. Of how joyful it was to hear Potterwatch on the wizarding wireless. Of being captured and held at the Malfoys’, and how Dobby set them free, and the price he paid.

By unspoken agreement, they did not speak directly of the Horcruxes. There was a reason that such magic was hidden, not even written about except in the rarest of rare dark books. They did not talk about the time Ron wasn’t with them. It had hurt them deeply, but he had come back when it really mattered. Harry had known that Ron was a hothead from early on, and more than any of them Ron spoke and acted without thinking. But there had been too many hurts and losses to hold onto one more.

“I think I am glad Molly and I didn’t know all of this at the time.” Arthur commented. We were very concerned about you, but I think we’d have been terrified if we knew the full extent of the danger you were in. Thank you for telling us.” He gave the three a significant glance. “Later, perhaps you would share more than the bare bones. When Miss Granger and I return from the Ministry, I will very much like to hear details.”

Harry looked up from his plate. Hermione was going to the Ministry today? He was going to ask when Mr Weasley stood up, glancing at the Weasley clock, where his hand pointed to “Almost Late” “Miss Granger and I should be off.”

“Arthur…” Mrs Weasley started, her eyes fixed on her husband as he cast a worried glance at George, still sitting at the table, staring unseeing at his barely touched breakfast.

“Molly, now more than ever, I have to go in. There is so much to do to recover from what You-Know-Who did. If we ignore it, even for a few days, those who believe like him, and those who simply wish to take advantage, will ensconce themselves back into places where they can do the most harm. I don’t want to leave you alone…”

Mrs Weasley stood straighter, wiping her hands down to smooth the fabric of her robes, the call of duty giving her strength. “No, you’re right. We’ll be fine. There are heroes of the battle here to keep us safe.” She rested her hands on Ron and Hermione, as if by that touch they could strengthen each other. She deliberately spoke as if it were physical enemies that haunted them, enemies they could fight off, instead of the inner demons that Harry saw flicker intermittently in each of their eyes. “You and Hermione will be fine. We’ll see you both this evening.” She smiled with a false brightness. The battle was over, but none of them were ready to mourn, not even George, who was clearly too numb to grieve.

Harry was familiar with this. When you were not ready to grieve, you just went about your daily tasks. You filled the day with what needed to be done.

Mr Weasley stepped over to squeeze George’s shoulder. “Yes. We can talk more later. Do you need anything before then?” His words could have been in response to Mrs Weasley, but Harry thought perhaps he was talking to George instead. A slight shake of George’s head, so small he might have missed it if he had not been looking, was all the response that Mr Weasley got. It occurred to Harry that maybe Mr Weasley was really talking to himself, in an attempt to reassure himself that his family would still be there when he got back. That it was ok to go and do the job he needed to do, even if he and his family needed to grieve. Harry hoped that Mr Weasley could get George to talk. It would help both of them.

Harry suddenly understood all those people who tried to get him to talk about Sirius’ death. Pushing wouldn’t work until George was ready, but it hurt to see him staring at nothing like that. Harry tried to pretend that it was different, because the Weasleys could all share their grief and how much they missed Fred, but Harry knew that no matter what it felt like at the time, no matter how alone he had felt in his grief, other people mourned Sirius. At the very least, Remus did. Harry could not think about Remus right now, without wanting to go outside and howl for all that he had lost. His parents. Sirius. Now Remus. Nothing left of family. But the Weasleys had survived. All except Fred, whose very existence had brought mirth and light. And he did not want to think about that either. It’s over, he reminded himself. These were the last deaths that Voldemort could cause. Voldemort had taken the last of Harry’s family, but not the last of his friends. They were almost a family. And that would have to be enough.

He hoped none of the Weasleys felt the tearing anguish he had felt for Sirius. Somehow, while Fred’s death hurt, and was just _wrong,_ it was not the same for Harry as when Sirius died. Perhaps because it was not his own stupidity that caused the final battle. Or perhaps the fact that Sirius had been a tie to his parents is what had made Sirius’ death hurt so much, and still did, if he let it. Or perhaps now Harry was just numb, after all that had happened. Perhaps it would all hit him later.

As Hermione and Mr Weasley flooed out, Mrs Weasley banished the food scraps from the dishes and started flicking the dishes over to a basin where a brush scrubbed industriously across each one in a flurry of bubbles. Ron reached over to pick up the Prophet that his father had left behind, scanning the stories. Harry began to gather the serving dishes with food on them, but Mrs Weasley waved him to sit down again. “You just sit and relax, Harry dear.” She cast a stasis charm on the food still on the table (“I expect you’ll be hungry later”), and cast something like Aguamenti on the dishes in the basin, only it rinsed them in steaming hot water. After a quick drying charm, she flicked them back into the cupboards.

After the dishes were done, Mrs Weasley shooed them upstairs to shower and dress for the day.

Harry did not know what had happened to his clothing, or, in fact, anything of his except what he was wearing, his wand, and his cloak, so while Ron took his turn in the shower, Molly had Charlie find some of the twins’ old clothes for Harry. Ron had been too large by the time they were ready to be handed down, so Fred and George’s old clothes had been stored away, in wait for just such a need. Despite the fact that some of the clothes had previously belonged to Percy (he could see the carefully sewn-in name tags in some of them, the stitches so neat Harry thought they must have been done magically) and some even to Charlie before that, the clothes were in better shape than what he usually got handed down from Dudley. Harry imagined the hand-me-down paths based on size: from Charlie, who, according to the pictures on the walls, had had a seekers build before he went to work with dragons, to Percy to Fred and George, and from the more sturdily built Bill to Ron. Somehow imagining it gave off waves of family that made Harry homesick for something he had never experienced. Why hand-me-downs in the Weasley family were redolent of love, and in the Dursley family reeked of hate and disdain, he could not figure. That was just how it was.

None of the clothes were not in the latest style, but wizarding culture moved slower than Muggle culture, so clothes from ten years ago were not unusual. There were even a few tie-dye shirts that had been imported from Muggle culture, and a pair of tie-dye trousers that he could imagine Fred wearing, but would never consider himself.

Harry took his turn in the shower and donned some of the new hand-me-downs, which fit better than anything he had ever worn except his school robes.

* * *

Molly obviously thought they needed a day or several off, for she did not have a list of chores for Ron as she usually did.

It was good to spend time with Ron, with nothing more important to do than get to lunch on time. Ron’s orange room made Harry feel nostalgic. It felt like a lifetime had passed, since they had last been here. But now they were back, as if they were still children. They talked Quidditch, they played chess (Ron won), they avoided anything serious. It cropped up anyway.

“Do you think the Cannons will make the finals this year?” Harry asked, because he knew Ron could talk for hours about the Cannons. He put down a card.

They were sitting on the floor in Ron’s room, in the narrow space between the beds. After the last time playing exploding snap, when the quilt on Ron’s bed caught fire, they had been forbidden from playing on the bed, the sofa, or any other flammable surfaces. It occurred to Harry that the wooden floor might be considered flammable, but Ron told him it had been sealed and charmed against any number of things, from insects to fire to warping. Harry wondered why the quilt had not likewise been charmed, and Ron did not have an answer.

Ron looked at the card as if trying to decide if it contained some secret mystery, then picked one from the pile. “Is there going to be a season this year? In the Prophet this morning it said the Department of Magical Games and Sports would probably have to be put on hold for the time being. Most of them that worked there supported You-Know-Who.” With all the stories in the Prophet about the end of the war, trust Ron to read the one involving Quidditch.

“What are they doing with them?” Harry had avoided thinking about this. He warily picked up the card Ron had discarded, noticing the edges were looking a little crispy.

“I dunno. You think they’ll lock them up until something can be decided? I bet the Ministry cells are packed. There hasn’t been time for trials, and they can’t just ship them all to Azkaban… there’d be too many. Besides, no one can tell yet who was an out and out supporter, and who was just trying to keep their jobs. After all, dad still worked there.”

Harry remembered the awkward encounter with Mr Weasley while they were trying to get the Horcrux from Umbridge. “Umbridge is in a cell, right?”

“She’d better be.” Ron agreed.

The card he picked up exploded, setting off his hand. Harry grinned and counted his points.

* * *

It was wonderful to have a day off. A day with no Horcrux hunt, no battle. A day here! Harry thought back to all the years yearning to be at the Burrow instead of locked in his room at the Dursleys’ or trying to work through a chore list three pages too long. A day with no Death Eaters out for his blood, no Voldemort torturing people in his head, no searing pain in his scar. A day. Just a day, like a normal person.

Harry felt like his life had taken a day off. With Voldemort dead (and he still could not quite encompass that it was over), he did not have anything he _had_ to do. Nothing was hanging over him. It was a curious feeling, partway between exhilarating freedom and numb shock.

He and Ron played a game of one-on-one Quidditch. They flew broom races. They switched off being Chaser and Keeper as each tried to get the Quaffle past the other and through the old Quidditch hoops that, according to Ron, Mr Weasley and Bill had assembled (and in places transfigured) years ago from bits of Muggle flotsam from Mr Weasley’s shed.

Harry pushed the old Cleansweep he had picked out from the Weasley broom shed as fast as he could, feeling the wind in his hair, then dived down toward the ground and pulled up at the last minute. He did not dare push it as far as he did his Firebolt, but he it felt so very good anyway. He wondered where the Firebolt was, if it had survived the long fall in the escape from the Dursleys’, and was resting somewhere between Little Whinging and the Tonks’ house. That thought brought the image of Hedwig, in her last moments. His stomach clenching in sorrow, Harry flew faster still, as if to escape the sorrow, to escape the past.

Later, exhausted, they lay on the grass and gazed into the blue sky. White clouds lazed across the sky. It was too early for insects. The ground was still damp from spring, but Ron charmed the damp away from a small area for them. Harry felt like he was gathering a childhood full of experience in this one day.

When Mrs Weasley called them in for lunch, they stumbled into the Burrow full of the day and the fresh air and the energy of flying.

“You really should try out for one of the teams, Harry. You could turn the Canon’s streak around!”

Harry grinned. Ron could be so single-minded, but it was Ron. When they emerged through the boot room into the main room, Ron stopped, and Harry bumped into him. There, at the table, sat George. And then reality crashed down.

George sat in the same position as he had for breakfast. Harry wondered if he had moved at all since then. He stared at the table. Mrs Weasley had a look to her face, a kind of forced cheer. The table was laden with food. Harry imagined her cooking, and setting out food, stepping around George each time she went by, and George just sitting there, staring. No wonder her face looked like that.

Suddenly, Harry felt adrift. How could he have forgotten, even for a minute, those they had lost? Fred. Remus. Tonks. He did not know all the names. He had not checked. But he knew those three, added to his parents and Sirius and all the others Voldemort had taken from him and so many others, Wizard and Muggle, over the years.

They sat down to lunch, joined by Ginny and Percy. Somehow, George’s silence took over the room. Harry did nothing to fight it. The sound of silverware and glasses and chewing became louder in Harry’s ears, filling the space, as they each sat in their own grief. Mrs Weasley took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes, then blew into it. Ginny patted George on the back, George showed no sign that he felt it. Percy made an aborted movement toward his mother, but subsided, sitting back down. He shrunk into himself, as if trying to make as little a footprint in his family as possible, as if unsure of his welcome. Yet Mrs Weasley needed something.

“Umm, are Mr Weasley and Hermione staying at the Ministry for lunch, then?” It seemed to Harry that with the ease of Floo travel, they might come home for lunch. Especially with – everything. Harry’s mind shied away from the thought. If he started thinking about Fred, about all of the deaths, Harry was afraid he would be in the same state as – as George.

Mrs Weasley roused herself, dabbed her eyes, and gave Harry a grateful look. “I expect they’re eating at their desks. Arthur often does that when things at the Ministry gets busy.”

The room fell to silence again. This time Ginny broke it, looking directly at Harry for the first time since he got back to the Burrow. Harry wondered at that, but did not want to think about why at the moment. “So Harry, what are you doing next?”

The question took Harry by surprise. He did not know why it should; it was the question he should have been asking himself all along. But in all the time leading to the final battle, he had not thought of his life beyond Voldemort’s death. Even his plans for becoming an Auror were based on the idea that he would need ongoing training to succeed against the Dark Lord.

He did not know if all the Death Eaters had been captured, but the danger to him had dramatically diminished. And he was not sure he wanted to spend his life painting one target on himself after another. He had done what the prophecy demanded. Now he was free.

But free to do what?

“I don’t know,” Harry replied. “I don’t think I am going to decide for a bit.” Mrs Weasley looked like she wanted to say something, but Harry spoke first. “All my life, it’s been about Voldemort. I need to find out who I am besides Voldemort’s number one enemy.” Harry remembered the posters at the Ministry. “I wonder if Mr Weasley could get me one of the Undesirable number 1 posters.” Harry gave a wan grin. “Now that I don’t have to hide from Voldemort’s government, I rather like the idea of being first at _something_!”

Ginny snorted. “You mean besides Quidditch, and DADA, and –“

“Stop.” Harry glared at her, but she grinned impudently back, and Harry thought that perhaps everything would be all right.

Nobody noticed the grin that flickered briefly on George’s face.

They ate on in silence, but it did not feel so awkward. Harry spent the time thinking. What would he do? He had not come to any conclusions by the time lunch was over.

* * *

After lunch, Harry helped, over Mrs Weasley’s objections, to clear the table.

“Ron,” Mrs Weasley started, after lunch was cleared away, I know you’d like to spend the afternoon with Harry, but Charlie needs someone to help with the charms for—” She broke off.

“For Fred.” Ron said, saying the name perhaps for the first time since the battle.

“It has to be a family member,” Mrs Weasley said, perhaps to Harry, as if to excuse taking Ron away for the afternoon. “I don’t want to leave you alone.” Harry looked at Ginny. “I need Ginny to help with the owls, to let everyone know.” Mrs Weasley said apologetically. She did not glance at Percy, perhaps knowing that the two had never quite gotten on, or at George, who would not be providing anyone company any time soon. George got up and went upstairs, not looking at anyone. A few minutes later, they heard a door close.

“It’s fine. I need some time anyway— I’ll just be in the garden.” Harry got up, climbed over the wooden bench by the dining table, and went outside. He felt the need to be doing something.

He thought about de-gnoming the garden, but that was more fun with other people. He remembered when Ron had taught him how, with Mrs Weasley reading out of that stupid Lockhart book. Somehow, that first time at the Burrow stuck in his mind, the memory as vivid as when he first lived it. He remembered them shouting at each other, and having contests about how far they could throw the gnomes. Fred always won those contests. He turned away from that thought.

The garden had been ignored… truthfully, it had never been a neat garden. But it gave Harry something to do. He crouched by a hedge to the north side of the burrow, and began to pull weeds. Even at the Dursleys’, when that had been one of his many chores, he had enjoyed weeding, assuming Dudley was not around and it was not too hot or too cold. It something to do that he could do without thinking. He could think, or he could _not_ think. He pulled another weed.

After awhile, Percy came out, and began to pull weeds alongside of Harry.

Their progress was slow but as time passed, Harry could see a small weed-free section. Neither spoke for some time. Harry did not know why Percy had come out, but he did not want to disturb the pattern he had started, of reach, pull, pile, reach, pull, pile, by starting a conversation.

“I’m sorry.” Percy’s words were quiet.

Harry stopped weeding and turned to look at the only Weasley he had not liked. Percy’s face was flushed from the sun, despite the charm to prevent burning. Percy kept weeding, not looking at Harry. “I was wrong about you.” Percy continued. “You were fighting him all along, and I – I made it harder for you.”

Harry couldn’t think of anything to say to that. He was not sure he forgave Percy. On the other hand, he could not muster the energy to dislike him either. He turned back to weeding. “Okay.”

They weeded in silence some more. By the time he left, it would be as neat as the Dursley’s. He shivered at the thought. No, he would not do that to the Burrow.

“Why aren’t you at the Ministry?” Harry asked.

“I resigned my old job, you may remember.” Percy’s tone was dry, and Harry remembered that Percy could, in fact, make jokes. “Although no one currently at the Ministry knows I quit, what with the old Minister in a cell, I’m not sure they’d welcome someone who was Thicknesse’s assistant.” He paused. “I’m not sure I like who I’ve been, and working at the Ministry… may not have been the best place for me. It may have made me a bit of a prat.”

“Percy, I hate to be the one to tell you. You were a bit of a prat before you worked at the Ministry.”

Percy was silent for a moment. “Perhaps.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Percy Weasley?” Harry asked.

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Percy commented, tufting his nose in the air and affecting a didactic tone.

If nothing else, his experience in Voldemort’s Ministry had succeeded in transforming Percy into a human being. Harry grinned, and pulled a particularly long-rooted dandelion.

“Keep that. Mum can use it.” Percy commented. Harry vaguely remembered a few potions with dandelion parts, and set it aside. Right as he was reaching back for the next weed, there was a sharp pain in his arm.

Harry jerked his arm back to see a small, ugly face glaring at him, its teeth buried in his forearm. It _hurt!_ Percy grabbed a rock and aimed it at the top of the gnome’s head, hitting it hard. The creature released Harry’s arm and went temporarily limp, and Percy, with a grin at Harry, grabbed it by its feet and swung it in a circle several times, before flinging it over the garden hedge. It flew in a long arc, coming to ground some distance out. The thump when the creature came down was satisfying.

“We have to do something about those gnomes. They’re getting bolder. Come in, let’s get that seen to.” Percy gestured to Harry’s arm, which had an incipient bruise developing.

Harry finally understood how Percy got to be a Prefect. It was not his slavish adherence to rules. Harry had never seen Percy being calmly competent before… he suspected his ego had always gotten in the way. Perhaps Dumbledore had seen this potential in the man beside him. Harry thought he might actually like this quiet, thoughtful, new Percy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter, his friends, his enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to JK Rowling.
> 
> Note: In case you are wondering, no, this will not be HP/PW. This fic is about finding ways to live again, after the war, an reconciliation is part of that.
> 
> Comments and concrit are always welcome. I find they inspire me to write further, knowing someone else cares about the story. Please let me know what you think!


	7. Memories and Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again and still: thanks to ivyingarden for all the help making this a better fic! She patiently helps me brainstorm (with some great ideas to throw into the cauldron), is fabulous with canon, has a knack for language, and keeps at me to "write write write!" 
> 
> While this is at heart a Harry / Draco story, this chapter is Ginny POV. There will not be much of that in the story, but I wanted to explore certain things. I am interested in the culture as a whole, and some different slices of it. The next section will be Harry POV and then we'll catch up with Draco.

 

**Chapter 7: Memories and Preparations**

 

 

_May 3, 1998_

 

The whoosh of the Floo distracted Ginny from her task, and she glanced up from her list of Fred’s friends from Hogwarts.  Ron would have been better at it, having spent more time with Fred and George, but he was needed at the family plot, setting the burial charms with Bill.  Besides, Ron was mostly oblivious to what other people did.  George would be still better.  Anyone Fred knew, George knew.  They had been in each other’s pockets from the start.  No one had the heart to ask it of him, however, after seeing the blank gaze with which he stared out at the world.  It hurt to see him like that.  She would almost have been willing to be the subject of a prank, just to see the wicked grin on her brother’s face.

 

“Molly, dear, are you there?”

 

“Just a tic, Aunt Muriel.  I’ll get her.”  Ginny rose to go find her mum, hoping to prevent her aunt from –

 

“Ginevra!  Ginevra, I’m coming through.  Be a good girl and go tell your mother I’m here.”  And with a green whoosh, Aunt Muriel was standing on the hearth apron.  Ginny did not need to leave the room, to her dismay, as her mum must have heard the alert on the floo, and was coming down the stairs.

 

“Molly, dear, you must be devastated!”  Aunt Muriel put the covered dish she was holding down on the table, and moved to pull her mum into one of her suffocating hugs.  Ginny could smell the waft of perfume from where she stood.  “How are you coping, dear?  It must be awful for you.  The boy never had a chance to grow up and be a proper man, how horrible for you never to be able to see him grow out of his heedless youth.”

 

Her mum’s face was turning red at the words, and Ginny saw her draw breath to launch a full diatribe, but Aunt Muriel continued before she had a chance.

 

Aunt Muriel snapped her bony fingers in Ginny’s direction.  “Be a dear and fetch me a chair.  I’m a hundred and eight years old, and floo travel is no better now than it was when I was young.  Now, don’t fret.  I have the owls arranged.  I have placed the parchment order with the stationer, although I’m of a mind to find a new one.  I don’t care if they’ve provided for the Prewetts and the Weasleys for over two hundred years, the clerk in the store was short with me.  I told him I needed to examine the parchment…”

 

“Muriel…” 

 

Ginny felt her mum used quite a bit of restraint.  She watched as Molly Weasley actually stopped, took a deep breath, and did not start screaming.

 

“I appreciate your help, Muriel.  Ginny has been assembling a list of Fr—“  She stopped for a moment, breathing as if running.  “Fred’s friends.  I still need to do the family.  I have the genealogy book, it’s just…”

 

“I’ll take care of it, Molly.  You just sit yourself down and rest.  Where are the children?  Ginevra, you are a good child, to look after your mother at a time like this.”

 

Ginny pushed her lips together.  She would not scream at her aunt.  If her mother could keep from shouting at her, so could she.

 

“Now, I have the Prewitt Genealogy at home, so I only need the Weasley Book.  Ginevra, would you be a dear—“

 

Ginny answered by getting up and heading up the staircase, to the bookcase in her parent’s bedroom.  She opened the wooden door and found the heavy, leather-bound book that had been passed down in the Weasley family for generations. 

 

The bookcase was charmed to withstand magic, not even an Alohomora or an Accio would pass by its small, specific wards.  Her mum once told her that she did not dare keep the important books in the sitting room, with Fred and George around.  Who knows what they might have turned into?  The thought hurt.  She couldn’t seem to go more than a few minutes without thinking of Fred.  Ginny sat on the large bed, holding the book to her breast, and bent over it.  Her face scrunched, but she could not seem to cry, right then.  It hurt too much.  Besides, they needed the genealogy downstairs.  She didn't want to leave her mum with Auntie Muriel too long, and the sooner she got the book, the sooner she would go.

 

When she got back downstairs, Muriel and her mother were sitting at the big dining table, with a few pieces of parchment in front of them.  Her mother looked about ready to burst, and looked up with relief as she heard Ginny’s footsteps on the stairs. 

 

“Here it is Aunt Muriel.  I appreciate that you are doing this.”  Her mum’s voice was remarkably even.

 

“Now Molly, you just set this from your mind.  I'll send the owls today.  You can be sure the announcements will be done properly, with my good writing, just as I've shown you.  I know it is not your doing that you were never taught a beautiful hand, although it's not too late for young Ginevra.”  Ginny cringed at the thought of lessons with Auntie Muriel.  “Well, that’s a topic for another day.  I’ll be on my way, Molly.  You look after your family.  Floo me if you need anything, and I’ll be here directly.”

 

The chances of any of them placing a floo call to Auntie Muriel to come over were slim.  Ron would paint his room green and silver first.

 

The room seemed suddenly very quiet, now that the force of will that was Auntie Muriel no longer occupied it.  Ginny took at deep breath, and caught her mother doing the same.  It helped.

 

“Do you need me to do anything else, mum?”

 

Her mum scanned the room, seeming a bit lost.  While Ginny was not as observant as her mother in this regard, she could not find anything that needed doing.  Her mum had not even stopped to sit down for meals since the battle.  And now, Ron and Bill were at the cemetery preparing the wards and blessings.  Muriel had taken over the owls.  There was enough prepared food to feed the Order and the entire Weasley clan, even with Ron at the table.  Harry had gone outside to do something, or maybe just to be alone.  She wasn’t sure where Percy was.  George was—more lost than her mother.  She thought he had gone up to the room he had once shared with Fred.  Her father and Hermione were at the Ministry.  There really was nothing for the two women to do.  “Mum?”  Her mother had picked up a quilt that had been lying on the back of the couch and started folding it.  The edges would not come together, and she unfolded it, and refolded again.  Ginny moved to help.  “There were some books next to the genealogy that had our names on them.  I was wondering—“

 

  “Oh!  Those!  Haven’t I shown you those?  Come upstairs, Ginny.  I want to show you something.” 

 

*    *    * 

 

They climbed the stairs up to the master bedroom, and Molly opened the cupboard.  “Here, help me get this down.”  Molly retrieved several books, each with a photograph on the front.  They returned downstairs and sat on the sofa in the main room. 

 

“This is your book,” she said, as she handed Ginny a photo album with a picture of her on the cover.  The picture had been taken the last Christmas, and she had her Weasley sweater over her pyjamas.  “Why this picture, mum?  Why couldn’t you have picked one that at least has me dressed, and with my hair brushed?”  She added the last as she noted that her hair was tousled from sleep and from just having put on a sweater.

 

“You look so cute.  You are growing up so fast, but seeing this, I know that no matter how old you get, you will still be my little girl.”

 

Ginny grumbled.  “Sixteen, mom.  I’m sixteen.”

 

“Yes you are.  And in a few months you’ll be seventeen. And I am very proud of you, growing into such a fine, and strong, and loyal young lady.”

 

Ginny winced briefly at the thought.  She really did need to talk to Harry.

 

“And here is Ron’s, and Charlie’s.  Oh, here it is!  I only made the one for the twins.  It always seemed that where one was, there was the other, so getting pictures of either alone was a feat.  I figured that, when the time came, when they got married and settled down, I would duplicate the entire book for each of them.”  Molly looked sad at the thought.  “I guess I won’t have to, now.  I should have done it from the beginning.  Should have made it clear that I need _both_ of them.”  Her expression twisted into grief.  “If only I had made two books.” 

 

Reaching out over the books, she pulled her mother into a hug, the albums jutting into her stomach and one arm uncomfortably.  She did not care.  “It is not your fault.  It is not any of our faults.”  Ginny insisted.  “It’s Voldemort’s fault, and he’s dead now.”  She said that last with a vicious satisfaction filling her voice.  The two held each other for a bit, and then Ginny loosened her grip.  “So, show me the pictures.  I want to see Fred as a baby.”

 

Her mum opened the album.  There, on the first page, stood Molly Weasley, belly round, and large as a house.  She looked young.    “When I began to put this together, I figured I’d start at the very beginning.  With two of them, I felt just huge.  I was sure I couldn’t fit through the front door, every time I tried.”  She turned the page.  There was Arthur Weasley, sitting in a chair looking bemused, with two red-thatched white bundles, one on each arm.  Their hair was even brighter than it became later, and looked almost like fire emerging from the white blankets. 

 

The next picture had the two twins lying in one (enlarged) crib.  They were holding hands.  “They were inseparable, right from the beginning.” Molly commented, drawing a fond finger down one twin’s face on the photograph, then the other, as if she could caress them still.   A few baby pictures later, the ubiquitous picture of babies in a bath (this one with two red haired babies, throwing bubbles at each other) had Ginny asking if there was one of her like that, and if so, could it please be destroyed.  A few pages past that, they had reached toddlerhood, with the two each sporting a Weasley Sweater.  “That was the first year I knitted initials on the sweaters.  The twins were always together, and they so enjoyed being confused for each other.  I played along.  Never let them know I could tell.   I decided to label them, for the good of wizardkind.” Her mum gave a half-smile, letting Ginny in on the joke.  “But soon, George was wearing the F sweater, and Fred was wearing George’s.  The two of them had so much fun swapping sweaters that soon little Ronnie wanted one with _his_ initial, and shortly after that I was making them for all of my children.”  Molly smiled and hugged Ginny close to her.

 

In just about every picture there was such energy.  There was the one of the young twins, at what must have been a picnic in the garden, having invented a game that involved children’s play-wands, and the tossing of the evening’s pudding in great arcs across the table, followed by one with both twins’ faces covered in said pudding. There were pictures of them learning to fly, and terrorizing the gnome population.  There were pictures of them in their Hogwarts robes, poking at each other and making hand shapes behind the other twin’s back, and later pictures of them testing out various products and transforming body parts into those of animals, changing colours.

 

Ginny laughed at that batch.  She had been pranked by their experiments so often that it was good to see them experiencing the charms and hexes they used.  Fred had such a wicked grin on his face in one, as George had one arm transformed into a canary wing, and the other into a butterfly wing, and a distinctly baffled expression on his face.

 

“I guess they had not perfected that one yet,” she commented.

 

Neither mother nor daughter visibly reacted as George crept into the room, but when he quietly sat in a chair next to the sofa, Molly adjusted so the album could be seen by all three of them.  George did not point and laugh, but he drank in the pictures, one after the other, of him and his twin wreaking their own brand of humour and havoc through the years.

 

Toward the end, there was a picture of the store front of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, with the two of them mugging for the camera.  It was a publicity shot, part of their grand opening, which they had published in the Prophet and the Quibbler.  For all that their mum had complained that the joke shop was not an appropriate way to earn a living, she had hunted down an original of the photograph, not a newspaper copy, to put in the album.  She had even labelled it:  “The Weasley Entrepreneurs.”  Ginny met George’s eyes, and saw a bright glimmer of emotion.  Ginny realized that her brothers never quite knew that their mother was proud of them.  She herself had not known until that instant.

 

At the very end, there was a picture that Fred had sent from when he was in hiding with Potterwatch.  This one was with Lee Jordan and Remus Lupin, which made Ginny wonder how Harry was feeling.  He seemed fine when she saw him and Ron through the window, playing one-on-one Quidditch, but Harry could be a little too good at hiding his emotions.  She really did need to talk with him, just... not yet.  Ginny reached for another album.  “What’s this one, mom?”

 

It was thicker and more ragged than the others, and had an oval wedding picture labelled “Molly Prewitt and Arthur Weasley”, in script that curved up around the bottom of the photograph.  They were looking into each other’s eyes, smiling, and every once in a while Arthur would reach up and tuck a strand of red hair behind Molly’s ear.

 

Mrs Weasley moved closer to Ginny, and patted the sofa on the other side, so George could move next to her and not have to reach so far to see.  She opened the album to show pictures, side by side, of baby Arthur and baby Molly.  “I got Arthur’s pictures from his mum shortly after he and I got married.  Cedrella came by and placed a huge box of them on the table, and gave me a lecture on the importance of family, and of recording family history.  Of course, I already knew that, but she was Arthur’s mum, and I was just married, and I was not about to start something with her right then.  She was a formidable woman.  She carried herself as if she knew her own importance... which I suspect is part of how all of the Blacks were raised.  It was her idea to start these.  She brought her family album out, complete with commentary for each picture, and then brought out a blank one, this one, and we started putting the first pictures in together.  I never took her for the crafts sort.”

 

Ginny tried to imagine her grandmother doing crafts, and failed.  Septimus and Cedrella Weasley were more reserved than the family she grew up in, and she could not imagine them living at the Burrow, although she knew they had at one point.  She remembered being told they passed it on to Arthur and Molly when Bill had been born. 

 

Beneath the pictures were her parents’ names and birthdates.  These were followed by pages with pictures of her dad’s childhood on the left, and her mum’s childhood on the right.  One of her dad with his first broom.  Then her mum with a mini potions kit, with the label “brewing hot chocolate in a cauldron.”  All the ingredients were food, as regular potions ingredients were too dangerous. 

 

“I loved potions, when I was little.”  Her mum said, somewhat wistfully.  “I wanted to go into medical potions.  I had an apprenticeship all set up at St Mungo’s, when I graduated Hogwarts.  They have a whole research wing for developing new potions.  The apprentices start making the potions for the hospital, under supervision of course.  This gives the Potions Masters of St Mungo’s the time to complete their own research.”

 

“You liked _potions_ , mum?  What happened?” 

 

“Bill happened.  Arthur and I got married a bit earlier than expected.  A potions laboratory is no place for a pregnant woman.”  Molly answered.

 

Ginny digested this.  She had known that her mum got married fresh out of Hogwarts, but this was new information.  Suddenly, her mother’s protectiveness of her only daughter made a bit more sense.

 

Why don’t you make potions now?”

 

“Who do you think makes the bruise balm, and the fever reducers, and all the droughts and elixirs in this house, young lady?”

 

“I thought you bought them.  I never saw you making them.”

 

“I couldn’t make them while you all were awake now, could I?  Potions can’t be interrupted, and I could not waste ingredients like you all did at school.  One skinned knee, or one of your pranks,” she turned to give George a fond but exasperated look with that last, “one distraction and the potion is either ruined or exploding.  Cooking is more forgiving.  So while I was pregnant with Bill, I took cooking classes instead of the completing the apprenticeship.  I get to see the results of my brewing whenever someone sits down at my table.” 

 

“Mum, do you ever regret—” Ginny started.

 

Molly put her arms around her two children and pulled them close.  “Never.  Not one moment.  I am prouder of all of my children than I ever could be of any potion, any invention.  Watching each of you stand up for what you believed in, despite all odds... you terrified me, starting so young, but never doubt that you make me proud.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter, his friends, his enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to JK Rowling.
> 
> Comments and concrit are always welcome. I find they inspire me to write further, knowing someone else cares about the story. Please let me know what you think!


	8. Motivations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks: 
> 
> Again and still: thanks to ivyingarden for all the help making this a better fic! She patiently helps me brainstorm (with some great ideas to throw into the cauldron), is fabulous with canon, has a knack for language, and keeps at me to "write write write!" 
> 
> Notes: 
> 
> Finally! We have some Draco in this Chapter, as well as a glimpse of what is going on at the Ministry. I still have several chapters in the hopper from NaNoWriMo that just need a beta read, some britpicking, and a touch of revising before I can post. Britpicking and comments and critique are more than welcome on this chapter as well.

## Chapter 8: Motivations

### Ministry Report

 

_May 3, 1998_

 

Ron was still gone when Harry got back in from the garden.  He and Percy had made quite a bit of headway, although there was still a lot to do.  Still, it felt good to see the difference they made.  It had been restful working alongside Percy.  Harry would never have expected that. 

 

They both went upstairs to get cleaned up, and then Percy retreated to his room, and Harry went downstairs, just in time to see Ron emerge from the floo. 

 

Beginning her dinner preparations, Mrs Weasley soon had spoons stirring and knives chopping, as if it were a normal meal, despite the abundance of prepared food Harry had seen set aside with a preservation charm.  She seemed happier this evening, but her face was not as expressive as he was used to seeing, and her gestures were subdued. These little things kept cropping up, the way Mrs Weasley would suddenly put her head on her arms, or look away from something, her gaze distant.  The way the Burrow devolved into silence when it never had before.  All reminders of what—of _who_ was missing.  

 

Mrs Weasley enlisted Ron and Ginny to help, much to Ron’s dismay.  Harry tried to help, but she insisted that he had done enough, and he should relax.  He wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved or left out.  He hoped she was talking about the gardening.  He did not want the Weasleys to start treating him differently.  He did not want to be given leeway at the Burrow just because he had mastered the wand that caused Voldemort’s death. 

 

Weeding the garden had been restful, releasing some of the numbness he’d felt since that night.  Now they were all back together, and with George sitting there, silent, one where there should have been two, the calm Harry had gained in the last few hours left him.  He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, but he kept wondering if he should be there while the Weasleys were mourning.  They needed a time for family, and, much as the Weasleys had always done their best to make him welcome, he was very aware he was … something in between.  Neither truly family, nor outsider.  From the first Weasley sweater that first Christmas, he felt grateful for every gesture that welcomed him as family, every gift, every nag, every time Mrs Weasley had doled out task to them all indiscriminately, but nevertheless, Harry remained aware of the small differences. 

 

As dinner got closer to being ready, Mrs Weasley allowed him to set the table.  Harry was laying out the dinner plates when he heard the whoosh from the floo.  His watch said it was around seven, and the Weasley clock listed all the Weasleys as being at home, except for Fred.  Fred’s hand on the clock was still there, pointing between the home and in transit labels.  Pointing at nothing.  Harry’s throat felt suddenly tight.

 

Mr Weasley stepped through the green flames, followed by Hermione.  They both dusted off the ash from the fireplace.  Mr Weasley looked exhausted, but Hermione’s eyes were bright and excited. 

 

“The Ministry is a madhouse.”  Mr Weasley commented.  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much activity there on a Sunday.  So much to do, even more to undo.”  He set his hat on the mantle, and kissed Mrs Weasley.  “How have things been here?”

 

Harry tuned out as Mrs Weasley recounted the activity of the day, hearing vaguely as she mentioned both Ginny’s and Ron’s activities, getting ready for the funeral.  He looked over to George, again sitting at the table.  He sat down across from him, and George looked, actually looked at him. 

 

“You alright?”  Harry asked, immediately regretting it.  Of course he was not alright.  But George merely looked down at the table for a moment, then shook his head.  Arthur turned a sad eye to his son, and gave him a squeeze on the shoulder.  At first, George made no sign that he felt it.  Harry felt just wretched.  A minute later, George looked up at his father.  Just briefly, but it was enough.  It would take time, but now Harry knew that George would come back to them. 

 

Mrs Weasley brought her husband a mug of chilled cider.  “What’s been happening?”  She asked.  He sat at the table, and lifted the mug for a large swallow.

 

“Kingsley has made me his assistant for the time being.  He needs someone he could trust in too many areas to count, and until the Ministry personnel have been screened, there are precious few of us.” 

 

Mrs Weasley nodded as she brought out a tray of mugs for the others as well, with cider so cold that drops beaded on the outside of the thick earthenware mugs.  “Good for him,” she said, with a marked degree of satisfaction.

 

“The holding cells are full.” Arthur continued, after taking another deep gulp of the cider.  “We’ve even had to convert some offices into temporary cells, with appropriate warding.  And there are some areas we still can’t access.  Some of the questioning rooms feel so foul… I almost think you can still feel the presence of the Dementors in those areas.  Or perhaps all the dark curses cast at prisoners have left their mark.  Those rooms will have to be checked thoroughly before they can be used, which makes it even more difficult to find space for detainees. 

 

“They left behind traps and curse wards in the Minister’s office—thank Merlin that Windling was there and saw it before Kingsley went in.  It took over an hour to dismantle it.”  Harry doubted he had ever seen Mr Weasley so animated as he spoke of the actions taken at the Ministry, not even when Harry had given him a Muggle transistor radio.  Apparently, repairing so much that was broken was enough of a challenge for the man to let go of his pain for a few moments.  Harry understood what that was like.

 

“We’ve had to block reporters from entering the Ministry for the time being.  The Prophet reporters in particular kept getting in the way.  One is in St. Mungo’s after tripping one of the curse wards.” 

 

Harry wondered briefly where Rita Skeeter was.  He would bet she was in the thick of things, exactly where she could do the most damage. 

 

As Mr Weasley spoke, Hermione nodded vigorously at each sentence, bouncing a bit on the balls of her feet when he mentioned becoming Shaklebolt’s assistant.  By the end of Mr Weasley’s narrative, she looked like she was about to burst.

 

Mrs Weasley took pity on her.  “And how did you find work at the Ministry, Hermione?”

 

"Arthur says I can intern there all summer!”

 

 _Arthur?_ Harry supposed it made sense, if they were going to be working together at the Ministry. 

 

Ron suddenly looked glum.  “ _All_ summer?”

 

“Such a clever idea, Muggles have.”  Mr Weasley commented, taking a bit of the roast Mrs Weasley had just set out, before she could bat his fingers away.  “They allow students to work in their chosen field before they leave school.  Get the feel for it and all.  Molly, Hermione says the Muggle internships are like apprenticeships, except the intern—is that the right word, Hermione?”  She nodded.  “The intern is not bound to a particular person, or even an institution like St Mungo’s, but offered a job with more careful – oversight.  They are designed to be – what is the phrase? — a learning occasion.”

 

Mrs Weasley turned to Hermione.  “And are you learning?”

 

“Yes!  It’s ever so exciting! I never knew how the Ministry really functioned.  Of course, today was not a good example of it functioning well – Harry, it’s completely disorganized, especially since they are testing _everyone_ there for Death Eater loyalties.  So what happened with Voldemort won’t happen again.” 

 

It gave him hope that he could find his way back, but was not sure what he would find his way back _to_.  What was Harry Potter, except for Voldemort’s adversary?

 

“They’ve caught a lot of them already.”  Hermione’s words broke Harry out of his thoughts.  “Of course, they’ve checked for marks, and anyone who came in marked is in a cell.”  Hermione continued.  “There were a lot of no-shows.  People who were in the battle, either at Hogwarts or the Ministry, of course, but also people who decided it might not be safe to come in for work at the Ministry with a snake on their arm.”

 

Ron sniggered.

 

Hermione ignored him.  “They’re going to use this device, like the magical equivalent of a lie detector, Harry, to sort out people’s loyalties.  There’s not enough Veritaserum to use on everyone, and there’s rules about when the truth potion can be used, so everyone who works at the ministry will be asked four questions with the device checking for lies.”

 

“What are the questions?”  Harry asked.

 

"The wording is critical, right Arthur?”

 

Mr Weasley nodded.  “There was a committee of Aurors and a few Ministry employees working on the questions. Everyone from the committee had to volunteer to an extensive Veritaserum questioning, first, and then they worked on the questions for most of the morning.  There are, you know, a fair number of purebloods who believed following him was the only way to protect traditional wizarding culture.” 

 

Ron scoffed.

 

“I heard that some of his early speeches were quite persuasive.  Of course, they never made it to his inner circle, and we know who most of them are. They had to be fairly specific on the question regarding You-Know-Who’s aims and goals in order not to cast the spell too wide.  The final version of the question was a bit of a compromise.  Even so, it will flag some traditional wizarding culture purists, who may not have had anything to do with You-Know-Who’s criminal activities.  We’ll have to follow up on a lot of people, I expect.  We only got the questions approved by mid-afternoon.”

 

“So they’ve just started the questioning.” Hermione interjected.  “And practically _nothing_ can get accomplished until all the employees are checked.  The ones that fail the test will get a more exhaustive set of questions, but will be detained until then.  They are really trying to clean up the Ministry.”

 

Harry had mixed feelings about all the testing Hermione was describing. It spoke of a level of paranoia that made him nervous.  On the one hand, it would have been useful to keep the corrupt wizards and witches out of the ministry in the first place. A more extensive use of magical checks would have certainly kept some of the worst injustices from happening _(Sirius!),_ but he also had experience with the way the Ministry could go overboard in the name of ‘protecting the Wizarding World’. He and Molly Weasley, for example were guilty of casting Unforgivable curses - what would happen to them under Ministry questioning?

 

“So the Ministry is doing nothing other than check its employees for sympathizers?”  He asked.

 

Hermione stammered for a moment, then looked at Mr Weasley.

 

“The departments were prioritised,” he said.   “Some were tested first, or authorized for volunteer Veritaserum testing so that critical and emergency work could get done.”

 

“Arthur, did you?”  Molly came over and laid a hand on his back. 

 

"You heard he is acting Minister, now?”

 

Mrs Weasley nodded.

 

“There are repair efforts everywhere.  Shops in Diagon Alley have been neglected, boarded up, and some of them will never reopen.”  Harry got suddenly very sad when he thought of the way the bustling magical street had looked the last time he was there:  with furtive passersby, beggars, and so many shops boarded up. 

 

“After the battle, Aurors and Ministry workers opposed to You-Know-Who went in that same day to secure the Ministry.  We were lucky it was a Saturday, so we didn’t have the full staff to worry about, but even so, You-Know-Who’s supporters in the Ministry did their level best to cause damage before leaving, sabotaging the areas they worked in, especially those who used tools that might have been used to track down the ones who escaped.  Too many of them escaped before we got there.  And of course Hogwarts...”  Mr Weasley continued sadly.  “The Ministry had to create a department specifically to direct volunteers to areas where they could be of use.  Many of them are being sent to Hogwarts, as the battle did some serious damage to both its structure and its magic.  There is some doubt whether it will be ready for the next school year.” 

 

The thought of September 1st coming without a trip on the Hogwarts Express, not just for him, but for anyone, shook Harry, but Arthur just kept on with his litany.

 

“A new Department is being created to reunite and assist families that have been affected by his laws against Muggleborns.  Hermione here has already started helping there.  The irony is that those that You-Know-Who’s ministry caught will be easier to help.  There are records for them.  The ones that evaded registration will be harder to find and help.”  Hermione’s face went still at Mr Weasley’s last words.  Harry suddenly remembered Hermione’s parents, in Austria or Australia or something like that, not even knowing they had a daughter.  But she knew the names they went by.  Surely she could find them.

 

“I’ve been helping gather and sort through the records from the Muggleborn Registration.” Hermione added.  “We have to find and free any Muggleborns and their families that have been held in Ministry cells first, but after that, we can start searching out and,” Hermione’s voice faltered for a moment, her eyes bright, “bring home the ones who were sent away to safety.” 

 

“You’ll find them, Hermione.  I know you.  You can find anything, when you set your mind to research.  With your help, they can’t miss.”

 

Hermione sent him a grateful look, but Harry did not miss the anxiety that it covered.

 

Suddenly, Harry felt ashamed of his day of weeding.  Hermione had gone on the same Horcrux hunt that he had, and fought at Hogwarts, and here she was volunteering, doing something useful.  She was not even searching for her parents yet, she was helping set up the infrastructure that would help lots of people find loved ones.  Arthur had lost a son, and was still working to repair the damage the war had caused.  And he seemed thoroughly involved in what he was doing, not just going through the motions.  Harry had never heard Mr Weasley say so much at once.  He wondered if no one had ever challenged him.  Coordinating the efforts the various departments sounded like a lot of work, and important work. 

 

If everyone else could find ways to be of real use, so could Harry. 

 

The next morning, after breakfast, Harry returned to Hogwarts.

 

 

 

### Going Crazy – Draco

_May 2- 4, 1998_

 

The three Malfoys had been taken out of the classroom and put into a sort of sleeping quarters.  It had a small room with shower and WC, and a room with a table and chairs.  There was only one bedroom with three student beds, but one of them went unused, and the standard bed curtains allowed Lucius and Narcissa some privacy.  The room was plain, and the bedclothes and curtains were a neutral cotton, which was just as well for the summer.  The rug was a Hufflepuff yellow, which had Draco wincing every time he glanced down. The furniture made no attempt to match. 

 

The doors and windows had been warded and sealed, and only an Auror could unlock it.  Their wands had of course not been returned – two destroyed and one out of reach.  A set of toiletries had been provided, but without the aid of spells and the custom potions and salves to which they were accustomed, the three found it difficult to maintain their natural aristocratic presentation.

 

Food appeared three times a day, and while it was not as abundant or as diverse as the usual Hogwarts fare, it was of similar quality.  The three soon learned to eat what was provided, as it would disappear if not eaten, and nothing would replace it until the next scheduled mealtime.

 

Days passed.

 

They had no parchment, no quills, not even a deck for exploding snap, much less a chess set.  Draco would hear Lucius and Narcissa murmuring quietly to each other, hour after hour.  More frequently, it was Narcissa murmuring to Lucius.  Draco’s father spent too much of the time sitting, staring into nothing, barely reacting to either wife or son.

 

Draco spent the first several days frustrated and angry.  He was not sure who he was angry at.  There were so many to choose from:  Potter for winning, Voldemort for losing, and for not being all that he promised, the Aurors, sometimes even his father for bending his neck to the man who killed enemies and followers alike.  His father seemed to have given up.  He was angry at the Muggles for – for existing.  For all they had done to wizardkind throughout history.  At the wizarding world for letting mudbloods in, changing their culture, drawing it away from the pure-blood culture he had grown up knowing.  Each year, more of the traditions were neglected, or lost.  Traditions he had cherished, overtaken by Muggle habits.  Yule was becoming Christmas.  When he was growing up, even the Malfoy family, which more than most other families kept true to wizarding traditions, celebrated both holidays, but Wizarding institutions such as Hogwarts had given way and ignored Yule entirely.  His father had been livid in Draco’s first year, when the Hogwarts Express ran on the 21st, and they had to wait the evening ceremony until well after sunset that night.  Just one more example of what they were losing.

 

The quieter magic of the Yule log, with its potential to evoke great change with small thoughts, was giving way to the flashy baubles on the Christmas tree.  The Great Hunt that connected them to the magic of the land, allowing them to soak in the power of life and death, had been transformed by none other than Voldemort into Muggle-slaughtering revels.  Why had he not seen that Voldemort was destroying the old traditions like any other half-blood, ignorant of what they were destroying?

 

Draco threw his empty soup bowl across the room, taking satisfaction in the way it shattered and splattered on the opposite wall.  The room was suddenly silent.  The quiet murmur of his mother’s voice had stopped, and Father, for once, was looking straight at him.

 

“It was all a lie, wasn’t it?”   Draco said into the silence.

 

His parents stared at him, waiting.  Draco started pacing, his steps furious.

 

“I mean, what did you accomplish?   You killed a bunch of Muggles and Mudbloods, so what?  You didn’t even make a dent.  The Ministry is in shambles, and _we_ are not the ones rebuilding, reshaping what comes from this.  Voldemort—yes, Voldemort!”  Draco shouted as his father’s face took on that look Draco knew meant he would be corrected.  After days of staring at the wall, the word Voldemort stirred Lucius to nothing more than Death Eater etiquette lessons?   “He is not a Lord.  He was never a Lord.  He was some fucking half-blood, who got the whole lot of us kissing his hem and cowering from the threat of Cruciatus.  And he left no _plan_ of what to do next.  Was he planning on living forever?” Draco was so angry he was shaking.

 

“Yes.”  Lucius’ voice was quiet.  He bowed his head.

 

Draco stopped pacing and turned to look at him, startled into silence.  “Well, _that_ didn’t work.”  Draco drawled, regaining his composure. 

 

“Malfoys have always planned for the long term, he continued.  “ _You_ taught me that!  When did we start bowing and scraping to someone, a half-blood no less, who couldn’t even make contingency plans in case of his own death?  He damned every pure-blood family in the cause!  You taught me about plausible deniability!  When did you stop listening to your own teachings?”

 

Lucius lifted his eyes and stared at Draco.  His passive gaze infuriated Draco.

 

“You deluded fools!  Did none of you have a backup plan?  Of all the purebloods that followed him, followed _you_ , not one of us can claim innocence!”

 

“This can’t be the end of it.”  Draco paused in his tirade, breathing as if he had just finished a Quidditch match.  “I will not end my days locked up in some room with my _parents_ , with the same food day after day and no wine and the world falling apart and being reshaped by other people who don’t know _anything,_ and hair that I can’t even _comb_ properly anymore!”  Draco grabbed at his hair, no longer smooth and shiny, but roughly combed without the benefit of proper conditioning potions.

 

Lucius’ eyes had his soul behind them for the first time in days.

 

“What do you propose?”  His father’s voice was low, but Draco rejoiced in the sound of it.  It was the sound of his father, quizzing him on applications of dark curses, quizzing him on politics and intrigue and how he would Slytherin his way to a goal.  This was his father before his year of cringing at the Dark— at _Vol_ _demort’s_ hem.  This was the man he could rely on.

 

“We need to get out of here.  _We_ need to be the ones rebuilding.”

 

“Not we, Draco.”  His father rebutted.  “You.  I doubt I can recover the needed influence in the climate that will be out there.  Someone must pay, Draco, and I am the coin they will demand. ” Lucius paused, his voice losing its strength.  If you can keep me out of Azkaban, I would appreciate it.  But I cannot redeem this family.” 

 

The words stabbed at Draco.  His father was always the one that led, that negotiated and bribed and intimidated his way into positions of power, from which he pulled the strings, and turned things his way.  Last year was… an aberration.  Voldemort was dead, and his father was no longer the Dark Lord’s slave.  He could rise back into his power.  His father did not give up.  That was not who he was.  He was strong, motivated, conniving, driven.  He was not this empty-eyed, silent husk, speaking with a dead, defeated voice.

 

Draco considered the situation.  He did not know which Death Eaters had survived the final battle.  He doubted any of them would hesitate to kick his father when he was down, to describe his Death Eater activities in lurid detail.  _“You are not protected.”_   No, his father could no longer protect him.  It was time for him to protect his father, as best he could.  To protect what his father had taught him to value.  Draco was in no position to bargain on behalf of his father now.  Right now, his father was more damaging to the Malfoy family free than imprisoned.  Draco flinched at the thought.

 

They could probably escape.  They would have to live like refugees, exiled from the manor, from Wizarding Britain.  If they did that, the chance that they could redeem the Malfoy name was minimal.

 

Draco was in agony, but he met his father's eyes.

 

“I can do it father.  But…”

 

Lucius saw the regret in his son’s eyes, and nodded.  “Do what you must.”

 

He had doubtless lost his home, his fortune, his standing and his reputation, now he would have to lose his father.  The wounds in Draco’s soul would have brought Dementors running, but his parents had raised him to know the future of the family came first.  He could do this.  He would, even if there was nothing left of him at the end. 

 

He set himself to plan.  First, he would need to be seen doing good.  To be seen helping the winners.  He would have to establish connections, especially with those on Potter’s side.  He started out the window, watching people scurrying around the Hogwarts grounds.  Draco knew his first step.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, critique, britpicking, etc. are all more than welcome. As a fellow writer said, they are the currency with which fanfic writers are rewarded for their work. 
> 
> Your comments keep me motivated to write on. Knowing someone is reading helps, and the interaction that comes with comments and replies keeps me focused on this story.


	9. Return to Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks: Again and still: thanks to ivyingarden for all the help making this a better fic! Also, thanks to rosskpr, who beta read this chapter, who is both meticulous and enthusiastic. Yay! Any errors after the two of them have combed through the work are from the author not paying attention!

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 9: Return to Hogwarts**

  
**Back to Hogwarts**

_Monday, May 4, 1998_

 

The Prophet was still delivered every day.

It amazed Harry. Work was in full force at the Ministry, though it was still a mess, and most likely would remain so for a while, from what Mr Weasley had said. Many employees were redirected, helping out in critical departments, while lower priority departments went on hiatus.

He only had to look around to see that Hogwarts was severely damaged. Mr Weasley had said that Diagon Alley was also needing repair. The Prophet, however, seemed unstoppable.

Wizards and witches all over Britain, including all those who had come to repair Hogwarts, gobbled up stories of the end of Voldemort’s reign. Harry had scanned the paper at the Burrow. He did not read the stories in depth, and he avoided looking at the pictures—too many of them were of him, and the rest were too vivid a reminder. Still, when a flock of owls came toward the end of breakfast, delivering news and messages to those working at Hogwarts, he watched people’s reactions to guess what the headlines were. It was odd to see so many owls in what was officially the summer holiday. The Sunday Prophet had reported that the Hogwarts school year had been declared to be over, almost two months early. Hermione had wondered about NEWTs, but the paper had not had details, just its usual conjecture.

Harry had arrived through the Floo in the Hogwarts Entry Hall in time for breakfast Monday morning and continued on into the Great Hall, passing the Aurors standing at alert facing the hearth. Having an open Floo connection into Hogwarts was risk enough, Harry supposed, without leaving it unguarded. Despite the fact that he was full from Mrs Weasley’s table-bending breakfast, served early enough to get Mr Weasley and Hermione off to the Ministry, Harry had found a place at a table and grabbed a glass of pumpkin juice. It wasn’t the Gryffindor table, which did not seem to have a spot to sit in, and he wasn’t surrounded by his yearmates, but he had missed this.

The house elves had straggled back to the castle, and meals appeared in the Great Hall, as abundant as ever. The tables were not in their customary places, as there were sections of the great hall that were cordoned off due to instability in the one wall that had been breached. All the house tables had been moved toward the High Table, which in turn had been shoved off to one side. The Gryffindor table had even been shrunk to half its length to clear the most damaged area. Harry supposed the house elves adjusted the preparations area of the kitchens to compensate for the different layout.

The noise level in the Great Hall was louder than Harry had ever heard it, even after Quidditch matches. Every seat seemed to be full, and Harry was glad to have a seat at what had been the Ravenclaw table, but was now crowded with witches and wizards Harry didn't know. He was certain they had all left school some time ago. Some of his age-mates sat at other tables, but none of the Weasleys, of course, and no Hermione. Neither Neville nor Luna was in evidence, or anyone from his year in Gryffindor. He wondered if there was anyone he cared to talk to. He wondered if he really wanted to talk at all.

Looking up, Harry let the noise wash over him. The ceiling was still enchanted, but it too was damaged, showing different weather from every angle, flickering in spots so that the stones of the ceiling were visible behind it. It hurt Harry’s eyes to look at it. He dropped his gaze back to the crowded Great Hall.

It seemed wizards and witches from all over had converged on Hogwarts to help rebuild, as if rebuilding Hogwarts would somehow fix everything else. It was here that Voldemort had been defeated, and it was here that the children of Wizarding Britain would again be educated. Hogwarts was the centre of it all, a place where there might be hope for the future. Not Diagon Alley. Not the Ministry. Hogwarts. Seeing all the other witches and wizards in the Great Hall, Harry doubted he was the only one to feel that way. But then, perhaps Diagon Alley and the Ministry were likewise thronged. Hermione certainly seemed to think so.

He sat back with a piece of toast, content to listen to the conversations around him and not take part. The rebuilding effort seemed fairly organized, from what he overheard. Many of those working to rebuild Apparated into Hogsmeade each day, but the rest had been assigned to one of the dormitories or guest rooms that were still undamaged.

Students, teachers, parents, townspeople from Hogsmeade, Aurors and Order members who had fought in the battle (and remained afterward) were joined by construction wizards, volunteers, and ministry officials. Added to all of those, a few prisoners who had not yet been transported to the Ministry for trial were held at Hogwarts, waiting until there was room. So prisoners, volunteers, and school administrators were all billeted wherever place could be found for them, either at Hogwarts or in Hogsmeade.

Message board were posted throughout the castle with various lists, tasks needing to be done, work crews, schedules, lists of things missing. It did not feel like school, more like a temporary village.

After breakfast, Harry found Professor McGonagall, already looking somewhat preoccupied by a small crowd of people, each awaiting her attention.

She saw him, waved him to wait for a second, and thanked him briefly for coming to help, before directing him first to put his pack of newly borrowed clothes in a room in Gryffindor Tower and then report to Filch. She turned to the next person, then called him back.

“Mr Potter, would you show Mr Enkelburst to the guest suite next to Sir Cadogan's portrait? It’s not too far out of your way.”

Guest suite? He supposed he would see when they got there. As Harry proceeded out of the Great Hall and up the stairs toward the Gryffindor common room, he looked at the damage. Large sections of the castle were cluttered with debris, or had gaping holes to the outside. He had to wait while the stairway he was on moved to line up with an empty spot where the remnants of the landing hung several feet away, before moving on to another that Harry recognized as being fairly close to Gryffindor. Harry had become so used to the idea of Hogwarts as self-protecting, or at the very least able to repair itself, that it hurt to see all of this damage. It was clearly bad enough that the magic infusing the castle was not able to restore it, otherwise the teams of rebuilders would not need to be there.

The wizard who followed Harry, a short, cheery man with reddened cheeks, chatted amiably in faintly accented English as they walked, asking whether Harry had been in the battle, and making tutting noises at the damage. He told Harry he was a parent of a Hogwarts student from about ten years prior, but had not attended Hogwarts himself. Nevertheless, Mr Enkelburst declared he was excited to do his part to rebuild the Wizarding World. Harry wondered where the wizard had been during the battle, if doing his part had been so important.

They passed the hole in the wall that Snape had jumped through that night, and Harry stopped to gaze at the ragged opening, remembering the sight of the man flying away. It occurred to him that he hadn’t told McGonagall about what he had seen in the Potions Master’s memories. He wasn’t sure anyone knew to look for Snape’s body in the Shrieking Shack. One more thing to ask Professor McGonagall about. Harry turned back to continue on their way. Mr Enkelburst’s sudden gasp alerted Harry that the older wizard had caught a glimpse of his forehead. His slightly incoherent and babbling thanks made the rest of the trip to the wizard’s room uncomfortable.

“I can’t tell you what an honour it is to meet you! I must tell my son!”

“Here we are,” Harry interrupted. They had arrived at Sir Cadogan’s portrait. Harry made sure Mr Enkelburst could get in, and turned to escape.

“Oh, but you must come in for a moment, Mr Potter! Look! There’s a chair! I wonder… would you mind terribly if I took a photograph?”

Harry did mind, but his annoyance didn’t lend him the strength to refuse as it usually did. He sat instead, while Mr Enkelburst dug through his small carpetbag. Harry sighed, looking around the guest room. It was quite nice. There was a thick blue and tan patterned rug on the floor, and the dark blue bed-hangings were of a more luxurious velvet, rather than the woven hangings around student beds. In addition to the wardrobe, a dresser stood by one side of the bed, with a small tea tray ready and waiting for some hot water to be poured into the ceramic pot, and a pitcher of water and a glass as well. Harry had never stayed at a hotel, at least not one of the fancy Muggle ones, but he suspected that this room was nicer—more homey—than any hotel room.

After pictures were taken (Harry did refuse the request that he pull his fringe aside to showcase the scar), Harry escaped.

On the way to drop off the bag of borrowed clothes onto his bed in Gryffindor Tower, he noticed other witches and wizards being shown to their rooms. Harry shamelessly listened to the conversations between volunteers and their guides as he walked through the castle. The war had affected everyone. There was both hope and loss in their conversations, but mostly, what he heard was a need to do something, to be a part of what would come next. Their relief was palpable. In Mr Enkelburst’s babbling, and in the conversations that surrounded him, Harry sensed a belief that the future were again possible and that what they did just then mattered. It was as if they all paused at the top of a great hill, taking a moment to see where they were, knowing that the step they took next would affect everything that came after.

It was good to be staying in Gryffindor Tower again. The bright red and gold colours were perhaps too energetic for how he felt, but they held so many memories. The tower was undamaged, and that fact by itself soothed him.

Harry assumed the house elves had come to clean it, but it still had the feel, and just a hint of the smell, of the school year. He could almost see Ron barging out of the shower, or Ginny sitting by the fire, her feet tucked under her, or Hermione reading on the couch. He could see Dean and Seamus playing Exploding Snap at the table in the corner, and Neville caring for his Mimbulus Mimbletonia by the window. It felt like coming home.

The Weasleys had said that Harry could stay at the Burrow, and Floo over to Hogwarts each day to take part in the repair if he wanted to, but there was still a part of Harry that could not face the constant awareness that Fred was not there and would never return. In the same way Grimmauld Place reminded him too much of Remus, of Sirius, even of Tonks, and of all those members of the Order he would never see again, the Burrow reminded him of Fred. Hogwarts was… home. Harry needed that. It reminded him of so much that was good in the wizarding world.

Besides, the Weasleys needed their own time to mourn. He had to pick up the pieces of his life, now that he knew he _had_ one to live, and find a new direction. It had been fun to play with Ron the day before, but he realized that was an interlude. He was not a child, and even though he had never really had a childhood, he could not recreate it now. It was too late for him to truly become the Weasleys’ dark-haired son. They each had to face their own present.

Harry’s present was that Voldemort was dead. Really dead. The battle that had shaped his life until that point was over. He had completed the prophesied task, fulfilled his reason for existence. He had no idea what to do next. Working here would give him a chance to think, to forget himself for a while, and then, maybe, figure out where to go from there.

After dumping off his bag, he detoured to see Ravenclaw Tower, but it was set behind warning charms. He wondered where the Grey Lady was. He hoped the tower was not too damaged, and that he had not played too great a role in damaging it.

Harry had the chance to view several of the other guest rooms as he traversed the corridors. It was mostly the student volunteers who were assigned dormitory space, however, he overheard that the guest suites were filled to capacity, and several parents and recent students were being housed in the dormitories as well.

How, with the Marauder’s Map at his disposal, and with six years at Hogwarts, could Harry have missed the suites tucked in here or there, much less the entire corridor of rooms, clearly appointed for guests instead of students, past the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower? Glancing into these rooms brought home that Hogwarts was indeed a castle, and not just a school. It was not that there were many of them—there weren’t, but they looked like they belonged in a castle. The room he shared with the other Gryffindors of his year, with clothes strewn on the beds, and the trunks beside or at the end of each bed, and with the bed curtains the only privacy, was clearly a room for students. These were not.

He wondered if the Marauders had discovered all the places that showed up on the map before creating it, or if they had charmed it to show the whole castle. Harry already knew a few places that would not show on the map, such as the Room of Requirement, if it still existed. Harry, Ron and Hermione had never figured out if it was because the room was Unplottable, or because the map was incomplete. Maybe he would have the time to explore. Without Voldemort, and the regular school rules relaxed during summer, the only thing he’d have to watch out for was Filch.

The Great Hall was still bustling when he got back down, and there was a queue to talk to Filch, as well as a cluster around McGonagall. Lists posted on one wall also had clumps of people around them. He joined the group around McGonagall.

“Was there something else you needed, Mr Potter?”

“I need to talk to you about something. Privately.”

“I will be right back,” McGonagall said to the group waiting for her, and then drew Harry to the side and cast a privacy charm.

“Has anyone found Snape?” Harry asked.

McGonagall’s face twisted into a sour expression. “No. He is one of the few Death Eaters that escaped. I think he is the one I most wanted to see captured.”

“That’s not what I meant. He’s dead. I saw him die. I was wondering if anyone found his body. He doesn’t deserve—”

“Deserve? Harry, we deserve peace, and Albus alive, and traitors stringently punished. Severus –wait. He’s dead? You’re certain?”

“Yes! I think—yes. But we – I was wrong about him. I’m not sure I’ll ever really understand him, but he helped me. He helped me all along.”

“He killed Albus!” Her voice was ragged. She glanced at the milling group waiting for her. “I don’t have time for this right now.”

“Just—just send someone to the Shrieking Shack to get his body. He shouldn’t be left like that. There’s something you don’t know. Have you seen Professor Dumbledore’s Pensieve?”

“There hasn’t been time for memories, Mr Potter. I put it aside. I have no idea why it was left out, what that _man_ was doing with it.”

“I’ll tell you… Owl me when you have time. I'll come see you. It’s important. There’s proof. I don’t really know what to think of him, but there was more to Professor Snape—”

McGonagall’s expression let him know her opinion of that. No proof would be enough, her tightly pursed lips told him. Harry would have thought the same. “Very well. Come see me. The password is Victory.” With a flick of her wand, the privacy shield was dispelled, and she turned to the next person waiting for her.

 

* * *

 

**Learning to Fix what is Broken**

Filch was in his element, directing volunteer crews toward wherever they could do the most good. Harry queued up in the entry hall for an assignment, surprised that the volunteers from the day before came back after dealing with Filch, but the old caretaker seemed somehow subdued after so much of his bailiwick was damaged. He had a wounded earnestness that Harry had not seen in him before. It was as if the castle was Filch’s child, who was now at risk for its life. Harry hoped the state of the castle, as bad as it looked, was not desperate enough to justify Filch’s expression.

When he got to the front of the line, Filch gave him a perfunctory sneer, but sent him to check in with a tall witch who had more muscles than Harry usually saw on someone in the magical world. Without even a token glance to his forehead, she immediately directed Harry to join a group of witches and wizards clustered around a broken bit of wall.

First, they held short training sessions for those interested in helping with the reconstruction, and tested the volunteers afterwards on the Temporary Reinforcement Spell, and the more advanced Place-and-Balance Charm that would settle the stones back into place and reintegrate them with the magical structure that was Hogwarts Castle.

Over the course of the next few hours, Harry learned and practiced the spells he would use. Harry certified on the Reinforcement Spell, but could not seem to master the Place-and-Balance Charm. It involved connecting with Hogwarts, and the thought of connecting again with something so much larger and more powerful than he was unnerved him. He thought he could do it, since Hogwarts was home to him, something he loved and trusted, but every time he tried, it was as if he felt reverberations from his scar, reminding him what such a connection could become, and he lost control of the levitation and dropped the stone. After a few attempts, the construction wizards refused to let him try again, and used those that had succeeded. There were several students who had succeeded in the Balancing Charm, mostly from Hufflepuff.

Harry was assigned to the reinforcement crew starting the next day, and for the rest of the day, he was asked to clean up debris. So he worked on the castle, levitating stone blocks out of the hallways, and learning from the construction wizards how to reinforce the structure until they could rebuild.

The witches and wizards who came to plan the restoration amazed Harry. He was able to observe them as he worked, and their orchestrated movements impressed him. The crew leaders seemed to know exactly what they were responsible for, and they checked in with each other periodically, so news of the collapse in the Ancient Runes classroom got passed around, and the volunteers could be directed to work where they were needed.

He had rarely seen such efficiency in the wizarding world, and usually only in the swiftness of the owls from the Department that dealt with Underage Wizardry sent to chastise him. Harry realized that Hogwarts and the Ministry were most of what he knew of the Wizarding World. Maybe there _were_ wizards who knew how to plan, to organize something other than a battle. It never occurred to him that there would be wizards who constructed things, and crafted things, even though he had seen them: Madame Malkin, Ollivander, and scores of other people he saw when he went to Diagon Alley. The wizarding world was perhaps larger than he had glimpsed. It seemed most of his closest friends and worst enemies were powerful people, from families of name. Many of them worked in government. Dumbledore, even while being headmaster of a school, had been head of the Wizengamot. Arthur Weasley worked at the Ministry, heading a department, and was now assisting the Minister. Lucius Malfoy seemed to do nothing but play politics, before his altogether too brief stay in Azkaban. Harry had known personally all of the Ministers of Magic since his return to the wizarding world. It seemed such a small world, where everyone knew each other, but perhaps it was not. He was surprised that he had never noticed before. That was one more thing to think about.

At Hogwarts, it seemed to be assumed that you would do something important after school. So many of his friends had Ministry connections, they could be assumed eventually to go into the Ministry, or possibly St Mungo’s, or in some way become part of the grand fight between good and evil. Harry suddenly looked at it from the Muggle point of view. Surely there was something other than government work, healthcare, education, or police work. Why didn’t any of his friends talk about opening a shop, much less working in one for a few years? Maybe he just never listened. He remembered how Molly Weasley had reacted when Fred and George opened Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Of course, that may have been because they did not finish their education. Harry realized that he didn't really know much about the families of the wizards he knew—except the Weasleys. What would Neville do, once he got his NEWTs? When would any of them take their NEWTs? There was too much to think about. It was all just too much.

He returned his attention to the work at hand.

Harry found himself perfectly happy to clean up debris. It was restful. Images of the battle receded, images of dead friends faded, concern for what he would do next dwindled. The rhythm of the work formed a cadence for his thoughts, and he sank into it.

The rubble had to be sorted. Larger chunks of stone could be reused, carved to fit their new positions with a precision only a master craftsman, or someone competent with a wand and the spells, could accomplish. It was nice to see this side of magic.

So much of Harry’s training had been in destruction, in war, in defence. Voldemort had ensured that. Harry wondered if the curriculum would be altered, now that Voldemort was dead.

Probably not too much. Even though they had a Defence class, it was just one class, focused on magical creatures. So much of his own Defence knowledge had been applied to defending himself from dark wizards, and he learned it working with the DA. He supposed few students had felt the particular urgency he had to learn Defence. Harry grinned wryly to himself. Maybe they’d get decent Defence professors, now that they wouldn’t be trying to kill him. Maybe.

He tried to remember who had said that there will always be another dark wizard. But not for Harry. He had had enough. Perhaps he could find a class somewhere on building something: a building, a sculpture, something.

There would be time, now, to decide what he wanted to do.

He wondered if he would be allowed to attend Hogwarts next year, to take his seventh year. Did he need to? Probably not. But he could not imagine taking a job offered merely because of his name and his scar. He needed time to sort things out. He _wanted_ to be at Hogwarts. He would be able to be a student without constantly having to fear some attack. He was sure Hermione would want to return for classes, to get the best score she could on her NEWTs. Would Ron? They would be a year behind. Surely, with all the students that were kept out of Hogwarts last year, there would be others. He would not be the only one held back a year.

Harry suddenly realized he would be in the same class as Ginny. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He tried to remember the feel of her lips on his, that last day before he, Ron and Hermione left the Burrow. So much had happened in between. And when he returned… They hadn’t even talked much. He hadn’t really noticed it at the time, but … was Ginny avoiding him? And why hadn’t he noticed?

He thought back. She had turned her head when he looked at her. He poked at the thought, like poking at a wound. Did he still love her? Did she still love him? It was all just too much. Would he ever be able to feel for someone else what Ron and Hermione clearly felt for each other? Would he ever be able to feel strong emotions like that again? He couldn’t think about that right now.

For now, he would clear out the damage from the past. Sort the reusable chunks from the dust. Vanish the dust with a quick _Evanesco_. By the end of the day the wrist of his wand arm hurt from all the fine-tuned movements of the various spells. _Wingardium Leviosa_. The first spell he had ever learned, and it was so useful, here. The Vanishing Spell. He had learned that in Transfiguration, but was using it in reconstruction. And once there was a clean slate, a clean floor, and the holes in the walls were shaped to make it easy for the next team to place blocks, balance them, and seal the edges with yet another spell.

Partway through the afternoon Professor Flitwick came and worked alongside him. It was amazing to see the tiny man hefting stones 20 times his size with his wand and a phrase. Ever the teacher, when Flitwick saw Harry massaging his forearm and wrist, the professor gave him a few suggestions, this time about ways to ease the stress on his wrist as he cast. It helped, as his wand swished and flicked, and circled and jabbed forward.

The work was repetitive, but it was also relaxing. He could see the progress, and he felt as if he were giving something back to Hogwarts for the destruction that he had been part of. He fell into the routine of it, and the afternoon hours passed unnoticed.

So much so that he was surprised when it was time to go in to dinner. They ceased work early enough that Harry had time to shower the dust off his skin and the soreness out of his muscles.

He found a seat in the Great Hall, at the Hufflepuff table this time. It was kind of fun, sitting at the different tables. Perhaps tomorrow he’d sit at the Slytherin table. He thought about it. Perhaps not.

With a plate full of chicken, roast potatoes and mushy peas, he looked around the tables. They were not quite so full as at breakfast and lunch. He supposed some of the volunteers had gone home, by Floo or Apparition. But he recognized several students, scattered at the different tables. He thought about moving, to talk to someone he knew. He could see Terry Boot and Mandy Brocklehurst sitting across from each other at the Ravenclaw table, and Hannah Abbott at the shortened Gryffindor table. If it were Neville, or Luna, or any Weasley, he would have. Probably even some others. But Ron and Hermione weren’t here, and Ginny was at the Burrow, and it just seemed a bit too much. Besides, he was hungry. Maybe after he ate.

 

* * *

 

Professor McGonagall tapped her goblet for attention, the sound unnaturally loud. Looking closely, Harry could see she had transfigured one side of it into a bell. She stood up and looked out over the Hall. “Thank you all for coming to help. There is still quite a bit of work to do, but I have no doubt that we will finish it in time for the coming school year.”

Applause roared through the Hall.

“Over the next weeks, we will be making plans for the coming year. As these plans are finalized, we will be sure to let you know.

“We did not come to this point without losses. A list of services for the fallen has been posted in the Entry Hall and by my office. Know that those who have given their lives to this fight will always have our gratitude.”

McGonagall sat down a bit more abruptly than usual, and Harry caught sight of a handkerchief. After a moment, she got up and disappeared out the door behind the High Table. Suddenly he did not feel hungry. Nodding to the others at the table, he got up and left. As promised, the list was posted by the door to the Great Hall. It was on the same message board that Umbridge had used. The thought made him mildly ill.

The list was too long. Too many names. He did not recognise all the names, but he recognized some. Colin Creevey. Fred Weasley. Nymphadora Tonks.

He scanned the list again. Upon reaching the last name a second time, he turned, and started to run. He dodged around rubble, slowing down when it became clear that running was not safe, but still moved quickly through the castle, until he reached the stone gargoyle.

 

* * *

  
 **In The Headmistress’ Office**

_May 4, 1998_

“Victory.”

The password came out a bit raw, but the stone gargoyle moved aside, and Harry climbed the spiral stairs. It had been a victory, Harry knew. He, more than anyone, could feel Voldemort’s absence. It just didn’t quite feel like he’d hoped it would. After just one day of sifting through debris, and seeing exactly how damaged the castle was and how full the infirmary was, he couldn’t quite feel the victory of it. Seeing the list made it even less so. Over fifty names.

He was just as glad not to have to say Dumbledore’s name for the password. Harry had not considered it at the time he went to use the Pensieve, he was just thinking of it as Dumbledore’s office, Dumbledore’s Pensieve, Dumbledore’s … everything.

Harry wondered why it had worked. Had Snape used it as a password? What was he thinking, knowing he’d have to say the man’s name, several times a day? Was it some kind of penance? Before watching the Pensieve memories, Harry might have thought it was gloating, and perhaps the Carrows assumed that, if Snape had given them the password. He wondered what the teachers and students had made of it.

But that was not why he was here.

McGonagall lifted her head as he entered. “Mr Potter. Good, I’m glad you’re here. We were unable to find Snape.”

Harry stopped suddenly, as if he had run into a wall. “You had someone search the Shrieking Shack?”

“Yes. They found blood, plenty of blood, but no body. Are you sure of what you saw?”

“I was there! He gave me his memories, and then he died. I _saw_ it.”

“He gave you—“

“They’re in the Pensieve. You—just—you should look at them. After you’ve seen the memories, I need them back. They’re … my responsibility.” Harry didn’t want that responsibility, but he also didn’t want anyone, even Snape, to be convicted unfairly. Once was enough. It seemed history was repeating itself, first Sirius, now Snape. But if his body wasn’t there… He didn’t want to think of what had been done with his body. He shook his head. He couldn’t deal with that right now.

“I need to talk to you about something else.” He perched on the edge of one of the chairs.

“The funeral list.”

McGonagall nodded, casting one last glance at the Pensieve sitting on a shelf behind the now closed glass door. Harry felt bad for leaving it out. It felt disrespectful. He shook his head again. They had been in the middle of a battle, taking time to put the Pensieve away would have been foolish. The Headmistress turned back to Harry, putting both hands face down on the desk as if to close the previous topic. “What about the list?”

“It’s missing a name.”

McGonagall sorted through a few scrolls on her desk. Of course she’d have a copy to hand. She scanned it. “Who?”

“Remus Lupin.”

McGonagall’s eyes flew up to meet his.

“Oh, Harry, I thought you knew.

The Ministry took him – took his body."

“What? Why?” Harry burst from his chair, more alert than he’d been since –

“It’s the law. Werewolves must be cremated. At a Ministry sanctioned facility.”

Harry felt like he had been stabbed in the gut. His parents had died before he could remember. Knowing Dumbledore, baby Harry would not even have been permitted at the funeral. Sirius, falling through the veil, left no body. No one had said anything about a funeral or memorial service. There hadn’t been time after the battle at the Department of Mysteries, and it wouldn’t have been _safe_. Then he had been stuck at the Dursleys’. Now it was Remus. He had not had a chance for a funeral for any of his family. He was not going to give up on this one.

“Okay. No casket. But the ashes…”

“They use a magical fire, Harry. There are no ashes. Nothing is left behind. It is supposed to—” McGonagall’s voice caught, then became very dry, devoid of emotion. “—prevent the spread of infection.”

“They had no right!” Fury welled up, burning from Harry’s belly into his chest, his eyes glittering fire. But he couldn’t sustain it. There were too many losses, he had given away too much, and Harry just felt depleted. They had taken too much from him, The Ministry, Dumbledore, Death Eaters, Voldemort… Harry was not sure if he had anything left to give. He needed just one thing for himself, a funeral for his last ‘family’, something that was for Harry: not the Boy who Lived, not the Saviour of the Wizarding World, just a boy who had never had the things others took for granted, childhood, family, privacy. It was not right that Sirius had not had a service, and it was not right that Remus was being denied one as well.

He sank back into his chair as if his strings had been cut.

“A memorial, then.” His voice was hollow.

“Harry, Remus has no living family, no one to plan one.”

Harry thought. The Marauders were dead. Tonks was dead. Harry’s heart contracted at the memory of yelling at Remus to stay out of it, to keep himself and Tonks alive for Teddy’s sake.

Harry could not remember Remus ever talking about his parents. He vaguely remembered Remus talking about when he had been changed, but he had mostly focused on how Dumbledore arranged it so he could attend Hogwarts. Tonks’ mother, Andromeda, would be too busy dealing with the loss of her husband and daughter. Teddy was too young to care. He would care later, Harry knew, and Harry was not going to deprive Teddy the knowledge that he was at his parents’ funerals.

“There’s me,” he said.

He remembered seeing the bodies, Remus and Tonks, laid out side by side, as Harry ran to the Shack, intent on the battle, intent on his tasks. That was the last he’d seen them. A glance. A stab in the heart, to be set aside as he raced on. And then, the spirits from the Resurrection Stone, echoes of people he knew and loved, accompanying him to his death. Only it hadn’t worked out that way.

He might not know what direction he would take for the rest of his life. He might yet be too numb, to overwhelmed to even think about that. But he could do this. He _had_ to do this.

“He deserves to be remembered.” Harry stated. “What do I need to do?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, critique, britpicking, etc. are all more than welcome. As a fellow writer said, they are the currency with which fanfic writers are rewarded for their work. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


	10. Complications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to IvyInGarden and Rosskpr who beta-read this chapter, and made it better.
> 
> An oops: As I was getting ready to post chapter 11, I realized I had only posted half of chapter 10. The entire chapter is here now.

* * *

 

**Chapter 10: Complications**

 

**Captivity**

_May 5, 2009_

 

The worst part of being captive, Draco thought, was that he had no wand. He was stuck with food the temperature that it came. If it was too hot, he had to wait for it to cool, and if it was too cool, there was not a thing he could do about it. His hair, made difficult by the stupid shop-bought cleaning potions provided, had to be combed. He couldn’t use the hair smoothing charm that he had created specifically for his hair texture. His clothes were wrinkled. Yes, he hung them every night, but he was unable to use the charm his father had taught him to make them completely wrinkle-free, so he would look every inch the Malfoy scion his father had raised him to be. Surely, he would feel more himself if he could only dress the part.

 

Aside from personal grooming, there was the issue of silence. Rather, the lack thereof. He was going to go mad if he had to put up with one more day of his mother’s soft murmurs to his father. No wand meant no silencing charms. This, in turn, meant no privacy. He knew his parents loved each other, but he did not need to be privy to the soft sounds of their affection, not that they were in any way indiscreet.

 

But the sound of kissing in these small quarters was louder than it had any right to be.

 

Worse, _he_ could not be indiscreet. He was feeling healthier, despite the plebeian food and the lack of exercise, than he had all year under the—under Voldemort’s tender oversight. All of last year, every time he went home to the Manor, he knew that either he would be writhing under Voldemort’s wand, or his parents would be.

 

Hogwarts became an escape from pain, as neither the Carrows nor Snape inflicted the Cruciatus on the loyal. There had been plenty of other students that warranted their wrath. Even so, Draco was just now getting the full use of his muscles back, without the phantom pain that had shivered up Cruciatus-touched nerves. His wanted to enjoy some of that health, and he had a hand even if he had no wand, but he was not about to do so with his parents in the same room. There was such a thing as decorum. And the D—Vol—that _stupid_ half-blooded _bastard_ had not destroyed that in the Malfoy family.

 

Only, to look at his father, staring blankly as his mother murmured to him, Draco had to wonder. Shortly after their conversation the day before, his father had retreated into himself. The only time he seemed to come out of himself was to respond to Narcissa’s murmuring. Sometimes.

 

His mother had seen Draco’s bleak expression before he closed off his face. After settling Lucius on their bed and speaking quietly with him for a few moments, she came over to sit next to him at the table.

 

“Is he ill?” Draco turned to his mother.

 

“When the Dark Lord took Lucius’ wand, he took his power, Draco. We are _wizards_. All of your father’s intelligence, all of his cunning, it did him little good if he could not act on it. And without a wand, he could not protect himself.”

 

“We have other wands, in the vault…”

 

“The Dark Lord forbade it. He said that as Lucius could not be out doing his will, there was no need for him to carry a wand. He made one available for Lucius to use for raids, but for the rest of the time, The Dark Lord found … other uses for him.”

 

“Not—“

 

“No. Not that. We provided a base for him, and Lucius gave counsel as often as the Dark Lord would listen. But otherwise, Lucius became the target of his anger, more often than not.”

 

“And you?”

 

“As well. Not as often. I still had use as the hostess of the Manor. But Lucius… he has always been the force behind events. His strength was negotiating in the ministry, finding just the right place to apply pressure to accomplish his goals. He has always been vibrant, powerful, driven. Confinement was difficult for him, but it was even more difficult when he was not permitted to take action.”

 

Draco gazed over to the curtain-shrouded bed. “How long has this been happening? I never saw him like this.”

 

“He never wanted you to see him as less than strong. He focussed all his will to appear as you would expect when you came home on holidays. He did not want you to carry his burdens. Your father has more strength than any man I know. At his height he used it to succeed. This past year, he used it to endure. For it all to come to nothing… to have damaged our name to this extent… He is all too aware of his failings.” She stopped and reached out to take Draco’s hands, looking him directly in the eye. Her eyes were not exactly pleading, but he could feel how much she wanted him to understand.

 

“He needs me, Draco. More than he ever has. I do not intend to ignore you. If there is anything you need, you may come to us. You know that.”

 

She had taken a breath, and as if the air was filled with a revitalizing potion, her face took on more intensity than he had seen in it. Ever. “You are the most important thing in my life, Draco. You are my son. Ever since you were born, you have always been in my mind, influencing each decision. You can rely on that knowledge, and rest knowing that you will come first for me.” Her grip on his hands was tight, almost painful. She looked down at her hands.

 

“Lucius… he is aware what his decisions have cost us. That alone hurts him more than anything the Dark Lord could have done.

 

“I have always supported him in his decisions, and will always support him in my heart. It is likely he will be imprisoned, possibly even … executed.” Her voice was quiet and controlled as she said that, but Draco understood what she was holding back. “Once legal proceedings begin, it is unlikely I will be allowed to see him again, whether I am imprisoned or not. There is hope for you. Your actions while in school, and at home before that, the responsibility for them can be argued to rest with Lucius – by law.

 

“Right now, Draco, he needs me. This may be our last time together. You _do_ understand?”

 

Suddenly, Draco could not object to the sound of her murmurs, or his father’s all too infrequent replies, or the soft wet sound of their kissing. He could not object to the quietly intense sounds he heard late at night, when they thought he was asleep. He could not object to any of it. This time, however long there was of it, might be the last time for them together as a family.

 

So, he made sure they ate meals together at the small wooden table. One of them always had to sit in the chair that was too short, but they ate together, and there was conversation, and sometimes Lucius rose to the task and participated. Draco looked for signs of alertness in his father’s face, grasping those moments to converse. But mostly, he left his parents to their time with each other.

 

Instead, Draco spent his time planning.

 

 

* * *

 

**Plans**

 

Draco knocked on the door to the hallway. There was no answer. He considered writing a note and sliding it under the door, but decided that between the wards on the door and the Auror’s unresponsiveness, he doubted it would go anywhere. Besides, he had no writing materials. The next time the house elf came, to remove breakfast dishes, Draco requested parchment and quill. He returned to the chair by the table to wait. He did need to write a note… two notes. One to the person in charge, most likely McGonagall, he thought, and the other to Madame Pomfrey. The house elf brought the implements requested with lunch. Apparently, the thought of Draco attacking the Auror at the door with a quill was not weighed as a serious risk. He took the quill and wrote.

 

_Professor McGonagall:_

_I would like the opportunity to meet with you. I will abide by whatever security measures you feel are necessary._

_Draco Malfoy_

 

He considered what she might require in the way of security, but he knew she had the power in this situation. He would have to abide by her requirements to make any progress in his plan. If the Malfoys had any power at present, he would not need to abase himself at all. Circumstances dictated action. He played with the idea of addressing it to the Headmaster or Headmistress, but discarded that. Better to deal with the known than the unknown. Addressing to her by name gave him at least the strength of familiarity and history. Such as it was. If she wasn’t Headmistress, she was still a person of power in this context.

 

And now, for the next, equally brief missive.

 

_Madame Pomfrey_

_This note is to inquire as to the well-being and current situation of the person I brought to your attention. I would be grateful for an update._

_Draco Malfoy._

 

He wished he could see Snape himself. He wished he could talk with him. He hoped he was all right. He hoped that he had been in time, that he had done the right thing to bring him to Madame Pomfrey’s attention. But wishes did not accomplish what planning did. He set aside his fears, his anxiety for Snape, the pain of the knowledge of what would happen to his family if he did not succeed, and also of the knowledge of what would happen to his family, to his father, if he did.

 

When the Hogwarts house elf brought dinner, Draco was waiting by the door. The Auror standing guard gave him a dark look, but did not interfere. Draco knew she was listening to every word that was said, but that actually worked in his favour. If the elf didn’t carry the message, perhaps Auror gossip would do his work for him.

 

Madame Pomfrey’s reply came quickly. Draco was surprised. He had expected her to be too busy to reply immediately. He was glad for it nonetheless.

 

_Mr Malfoy_

_The Healing is not complete. He lives._

_Madame Pomfrey_

 

That was not nearly enough information.

 

Draco waited. Draco planned.

 

He did not hear back from McGonagall.

The next day, he sent another message.

 

_Professor McGonagall_

_I hear and see that Hogwarts is being repaired. I wonder if I could be of assistance?_

_Draco Malfoy_

 

 

* * *

 

**Not Dead Yet**

_May 5, 1998_

 

Severus Snape awoke. Where was he? Hadn’t there been a battle? Albus would be wondering—no, not Albus. He was sure of that. There was no one he cared to report to just then. No one he wanted to report to ever again. He spared a moment to hope the boy succeeded. Hope, however, had no place in his life. The Potter brat had traipsed across the countryside doing who knows what, while the Dark Lord grew stronger: in followers too unobservant to realize what they were following, in political power in the Ministry. The battle could have gone either way, even with all Albus’ planning, all his own sacrifices. And there was no way to discover the outcome, except to open his eyes and discover for himself.

 

The rush of thoughts left him with an unaccustomed vertigo.

 

Carefully, slowly, he opened his eyes, surprised that he could do so. And then, he was surprised to find himself in his own quarters. Lying on the sofa in the sitting room. He had thought, he had sight, he must still be alive.

 

He was not in that damned shack of Lupin’s, and he was not dead. He did not even seem to be in more pain than normal. He turned his head, tentatively. An excruciating pain pounded through him, starting at his head but not leaving any limb untouched.

 

Perhaps he _was_ in more pain than normal. He rested for a moment, then pulled himself upward, using the back of the sofa for leverage. By the time he was standing, his head throbbed. He moved toward his potions store. The door was open. What’s more, his special cabinet was open.

 

He scanned the room, looking for something out of place. On the table, between the sofa and one upholstered chair, sat four bottles. He recognized them by the shape and colour of the bottles alone.

 

Oh.

 

Draco.

 

There was no one else that would know how to get access, and would have a clue how to use them. And care to do so. Once, Lucius might have cared. Recently, Lucius would have been happy to see him dead, Snape thought.

 

So Draco had brought him here, had broken into his locked Potions stores, and then left him alone. He would have to have a serious talk with his godson.

 

He found a potion for pain that would not interact with the four in his system. Swallowing a double dose, he stood very still until the ache receded. He still hurt, but he could function. Probably.

 

First, he needed to find out what was transpiring outside of his rooms. He looked around for his wand. He searched his robes, and the tables, in his Potions closet, and under the sofa cushions. And then he did a more thorough search. He found it where it had rolled, under the sofa on which he had been lying. He recalled a slight clatter just as he reached consciousness. His hands were certainly stiff enough to have been holding his wand all this time. He stretched each one until the knuckles popped.

 

He needed to find Draco. He needed to find out what had happened. He put on his cloak, lifted the hood over his head, flicked his wand at the smouldering embers and tossed Floo powder into the reawakened fire. “Headmaster’s Office,” he said, and stepped into the green flames. He could have done without the spinning, even for that short distance.

 

Even when he had become headmaster, Severus had maintained his own quarters in the Dungeons. Slughorn had found another room more to his liking, and there was no need for Snape to vacate the quarters he had lived in for over 18 years, let alone move into Dumbledore’s room. It had been difficult enough, taking over the old man’s office. It had never become his office in his mind. The office belonged to the position.

 

It had been disturbed since he was last here. Parchments were stacked in relatively neat piles on the desk. He glanced at the top one. It was a funeral list. From the names, it was clear that the Dark Lord was not in control of the castle. But Potter was not on the list. Had the Dark Lord survived, then? Snape searched the room until he found it. The Pensieve.

 

The cabinet with the Pensieve in it was locked. After all he had done, had the brat not even bothered to look at his memories? He certainly had no compunction about it a few years ago. With a quick wand movement, the cabinet door clicked open, and Snape saw, with some relief, that it swirled with silvery fluid, and he could almost see a blur of Lily’s hair. He wanted to plunge in and see the memories, to see Lily in the clarity of the Pensieve, but there were other more pressing issues. The glimpse had proved they were his own memories.

 

 So the brat had—in all probability—viewed them. Had he followed through? Potter was not dead. Had it all been wasted? Snape could not imagine going through this again in another ten years. He wasn’t sure he could imagine surviving another ten years. He looked again at the Pensieve. Fragments of his life, all leading to one place. A fury rose in him. All his choices. Every moment sacrificed, every Cruciatus endured, every time he crawled before that creature, every regret, every penance, laid out before the Potter spawn, to waste or use. And the brat was alive.

 

He was not sure he could have made Albus’ choices, to raise the boy for slaughter. Albus seemed genuinely to care for the brat. Severus had learned early on never to care for those you must use. You take care of your tools, but you never let yourself get emotionally attached. He knew Albus had done both. He knew Albus had come to care for him, as well, yet he used him as needed, throwing him back to the Dark Lord, asking him to endure, to commit unbearable acts, to bear them anyway. And he had.

 

Snape was not so minded to compare which sacrifice was worse: that which Albus had asked of himself, or that which he had asked of Potter. To sacrifice your honour or to sacrifice yourself. The sight of those memories, swirling in Albus’ Pensieve, brought both choices together in Severus’ mind. He did not want to consider it. It was a waste of time, when he still did not know the full outcome of the battle.

 

Severus considered taking the memories back. For the moment, while he could remember them, they did not stab at him. They didn’t press at him with urgency, nor with bile at the results of his choices. He was able to think more clearly, about things he had not let himself acknowledge. Maybe he would leave them there. For the moment. With only some of the important answers resolved, he needed his strength, but at the moment he could feel it draining away. He stumbled to the chair in the corner and collapsed into it. Just to consider where to go next.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**In the Hospital Wing**

_May 5, 1998_

 

Madame Pomfrey had never been so busy.

 

One of the volunteers had fallen from the wall he was working on, and despite the cushioning charm the crew leader had cast, the volunteer had ended up with a broken ankle. An _Immobulus_ charm and a dose of Skele-Gro later, the ankle was tender but healing. Poppy did not have the luxury of making the volunteer rest in a bed, much as she might want to. Wizard space interfered with healing, especially with some kinds of spell damage, so she was limited by available space, and there just wasn’t enough. She sent the volunteer off with instructions to rest for the remainder of the day, and headed back to her office.

 

As busy as the Hospital Wing had been since the battle, she didn’t dare let the medical records lapse. Every potion given, every cure applied had to be noted, in case of later complications. Each potion had a duration-of-effect, and some needed specific timing for the next dose. It was also critical to avoid certain potion interactions. She had seen enough crises from that during her apprenticeship at St Mungo’s in the critical spell damage ward that she was very careful with those under her care. And while the transfer Mediwitches and Mediwizards from St Mungo’s kept their own records for the patients under their care, it was still her ward, and she checked the records of each patient in it.

 

As soon as she reached the door to her office, the insistent ring of an alert chime derailed her intentions.

 

She quickly moved to quiet it and gather some supplies. The reintegration spell she had cast to reunify Snape’s chaotic magical field could be disrupted by physical disturbance or interfering magical field. Prohibited from checking in on him by the nature of the spell, she had woven the alert that had just sounded into the reintegration spell, blending the magic of each spell into the other. As soon as she had set the spell, she activated a healer’s ward on Snape’s rooms, carefully balanced so its magical field was all on the outside of the shield, and sealed the room. She had not been back since, although she had been tempted several times. As powerful as this last-ditch spell was, she hated using it, if only for the fact that she could not check on her patient until it had run its course.

 

Gathering sanitized cloths, bandages, her notes, and some potion vials—her lips twitching at the irony of bringing potions back to the Potions Master’s rooms but not wanting to risk searching through his personal stores—she headed toward the dungeons.

 

“Madame Pomfrey!”

 

She turned to see one of the construction mages guiding a young wizard through the doors. He was covered in bleeding sores, and had his hand over his mouth as if he were trying to keep from vomiting. She remembered him… a recent graduate, from perhaps two or three years ago. He had been to the infirmary only rarely. Ravenclaw, if she recalled correctly.

 

“What happened?”

 

“He was helping shift debris in the classrooms on the main floor. He was doing fine, and I went to check on Alyce, who was dealing with an intricate load balancing issue. When I came back, he was on the ground, and was like this.”

 

“Come, let’s get you settled over here.” She guided him to a bed that had recently been vacated and reset. “Now, can you tell me what you were doing at the time?”

 

The wizard – Poppy tried to remember his name – took his hand from his mouth and tried to speak, only to spasm.

 

Poppy conjured a basin for him, and waited until he raised his head again. _“Evanesco.”_ Poppy removed the liquid from the basin, but left the basin, just in case. “I’m sorry.” She told him. “I don’t dare give you potion to relieve your nausea until I know what you’ve been exposed to. Can you describe what you were doing when this started?”

 

“Wasn’t doing anything. Just moving the rock and dust, like he showed me.” The wizard gestured to his guide. “I started to feel a bit dizzy. I was almost done with the room—" he clapped his hand over his mouth again and heaved.

 

Poppy cast a few diagnostic charms. His magic was blotched with dark taint. She had seen this with particularly dark curses, but she could find no evidence of a curse. It looked as if the darkness infecting his magic was causing his flesh to decompose in places.

 

_First, do no harm_ , she thought to herself. It was clearly painful, but not immediately life-threatening. Much as she wanted to relieve the pain, she first needed to know what ailed him. “What’s your name?”

 

The tight clenching of his stomach released him after a few moments, enough for him to draw breath. “Angus Thelbren.”

 

“Yes, I remember you now. Ravenclaw, weren’t you?” He nodded. Well, Mr Thelbren, I’m going to ask you to lie down. I know it will hurt a bit, but I am going to cast a charm to slow down what’s happening to you. It will cause you to sleep, and you don’t want to fall.”

 

He gingerly leaned back in the bed, and she helped him put his feet up, carefully avoiding any open sores.

 

With a carefully controlled wave of her wand, Poppy muttered a charm that would slow both his magic and his body processes. She needed to find out what this was. Who would know? Once she would have asked Severus—glancing down, she noticed the supplies she had let fall when she had been called over. Severus!

 

Gathering the supplies back to hand, Madame Pomfrey called one of the hospital ward volunteers to her. “I need you to keep an eye on Angus Thelbren here. If there is any change, any change at all, I want you to call for Minky to come get me. Understood?” A quick nod reassured her. “I’ll be back shortly.”

 

Just as she was leaving the ward, she heard a voice from her office—“Poppy? Are you there?”

 

Setting down her supplies again, Poppy returned to her office, hoping the floo-call would be brief.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Discovered**

_May 5, 1998_

 

Minerva McGonagall climbed the stairs to the Headmistress’ office. She was tired. There was just so much to be done. First and foremost, as headmistress she was in charge of organizing the rebuilding. Filch had been a gift in that regard. He had taken over coordinating the floods of volunteers and ensured that the various tasks got prioritized and done. Somehow, this catastrophe had brought out the best in him. He had not been overtly cold or sneering toward the volunteers, so far. She had caught him stroking one of the walls, murmuring to the castle, and the sneer on his face had been replaced by a faintly wounded look if he thought he was alone, but she could not fault his organization skills. So for the most part she could turn that over to him, but it was still her responsibility to oversee.

 

In addition, the next school year needed to be planned. She needed to start searches for new teachers to replace the ones who had died or were imprisoned. She needed a new Muggle Studies teacher, a new Potions professor, as Horace had told her quite vehemently that he had had enough, and that his retirement was not to be interrupted again. She also needed a new Defence teacher, she needed to replace herself for Transfiguration, and Bathsheda in Ancient Runes had let her know she was sending her curriculum vitae elsewhere. She doubted that Dumbledore in all his years as Headmaster had ever had to replace so many Hogwarts instructors in one go. Inquiries had gone out but she was not satisfied with the quality of what she had seen so far for Transfiguration or Potions, and they were core subjects. She didn’t know whether she would be able to find someone competent for Defence, either.

 

In addition, she needed to spend time with the existing teachers, as the curriculum needed to be redeveloped both to clear it from Death Eater propaganda and change the focus away from wartime planning (which she had to admit had become the focus more and more as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named grew in power). And the Hogwarts letters for the coming year needed to be rechecked, as well as those from the previous year, as she had discovered that the letters for Muggleborn students for that year had not gone out, although she had been sure the process was supposed to be initiated by the Book.

 

It was only May, and she was already feeling behind. She hoped she would get it all done in time.

 

It felt as if she shouldn’t be focussing on these everyday things when such terrible things had happened only a few days before. But if she didn’t do them, then Hogwarts might not start on time. She couldn’t let that happen. He Who Must Not Be Named had already caused too much chaos, without letting his reach extend still further.

 

When she opened the door at the top of the stairs, her heart faltered. A large, black clad body lay sprawled in her chair. Severus Snape. He appeared to be either dead or unconscious. How had he gotten there? There was fresh ash on the hearth… she had forgotten to change the wards on the Floo connection.

 

She carefully stepped over to him, wand out, and cast a quick spell. He was alive. Just to be sure, she cast a binding spell on him, not trusting that a stunning spell wouldn’t kill him. She needed answers more than she needed his corpse. How was he still alive? Harry had said he was dead as he left the shack. Trust Severus Snape to survive. That is what he was best at.

 

With Snape safely secured, she turned to the fireplace and muttered a quick _Incendio_ to reawaken the flames, then tossing in a bit of Floo powder. “Poppy? Are you there?” There was a long pause.

 

“Minerva, what do you need?”

 

“I have Severus Snape in my office, unconscious, I believe. Could you come through?”

 

“Oh! Certainly. He should not have been able to walk that far! Coming through.”

 

With a flare of green, Poppy was in her office. She cast several diagnostics on Snape, then turned to Minerva. “Was it strictly necessary to bind him?”

 

“Until I know for certain where his allegiances lie, I am taking no chances.”

 

“He’s unconscious. How much danger can he be at the moment? If I am to treat him, I’ll need you to remove the binding.”

 

“Let’s get him to the infirmary first.”

 

Poppy cast a diagnostic charmMinerva recognized from years of bringing students to the Hospital wingbefore casting _Mobilicorpus_. Her spell, gentle from years of use on patients, lifted the body from the chair, and straightened him out. Minerva transfigured a chair cushion into a blanket to lay atop him, covering even his face.

 

They couldn’t fit his hovering body through the floo, so Poppy released the spell, catching the man on her shoulder, his head draped onto her back in a grim parody of an embrace. Minerva helped her settle him so that Poppy could carry him. The binding helped keep stray appendages in. “He would hate this.” Poppy commented.

 

“I truly do not care.”

 

With one last glance to make sure nothing was hanging out, Poppy Disillusioned the body, then preceded Minerva through the floo into her office. She settled him into a chair for a moment to catch her breath.

 

Minerva cast a stern look at her. “You knew about this. You knew he was alive.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You didn’t tell me.” Minerva kept her voice calm and without judgement.

 

“Patient confidentiality.”

 

“You know that doesn’t apply. He—”

 

“Minerva McGonagall, I did not hear you say that. I did not hear you suggest that I let my principles slide, just because you don’t approve of Severus Snape.”

 

Again casting _Mobilicorpus_ , Poppy resettled the blanket over him. “I assume word of his survival should remain between us for now?”

 

“For now. I need to know a few things first. How did he survive?”

 

“Draco Malfoy found him. He said that the He Who Must Not Be Named killed him, using that snake Mr Longbottom killed.”

 

Poppy turned and guided the Disillusioned body carefully across the short distance to the private ward reserved for teachers and contagious students. After settling him in the bed, she raised the alert that signified contagion. That would keep people out. It would still need to be locked.

 

“Harry said the same thing.” Minerva commented. “It still doesn’t mean that Severus didn’t truly follow You Know Who. If he did… I’ll not hesitate to turn him over to the Aurors for a good long stay in Azkaban. And nothing will diminish the fact that he killed Albus, or that he allowed those—those people into the school.”

 

“What would you have had him do?”

 

“He should not have killed Albus!”

 

Poppy nodded. “That does seem the telling point. He will have to answer for that. However, I meant this past year.”

 

“He was the Headmaster. If he really was working against them, he should have done something. Albus would have.”

 

“Severus Snape was not Albus.”

 

“No, he was not.” Minerva’s words meant something quite different than Poppy’s.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**A Meeting with Andromeda**

_May 5, 1998_

 

An owl came to Harry at breakfast. During the vacations, owls seemed to come all the time. They didn’t bother the volunteers while working, but all three meals showed a flock of owls to the tables.

Harry untied the message from the small brown owl’s leg. It still hurt to use any owl but Hedwig. She had been with him through so much.

The message was from Andromeda Tonks, replying to his request to meet with her. She had suggested that he come by that morning at nine, and let him know the floo address. He scrawled an affirmative and sent the owl back.

* * *

Harry used the Floo in McGonagall’s office. He never liked travelling by Floo. The only form of magical travel he enjoyed was flying. Floo travel left him dirty and dizzy, Apparating left him faintly nauseous, and Portkeys had too many memories. But brooms had a limitation on how far one could reasonably travel, and the Tonks family lived closer to London than Scotland, from what he recalled. He had only been there the one time, and wasn’t sure he could find it again by broom. It was in a mostly Muggle area, he remembered.

He spun out of the floo and found himself in the Tonks’ parlour. Putting a quick hand to catch his balance until the dizzy spell subsided, he left a sooty smudge on the mantelpiece. Embarrassed, Harry cast a quick _Scourgify_ to remove the ash he'd brought with him from his robes, trousers, the carpet beneath him and the mantle. One day he would understand how to floo. One day, he would get his Apparition license. Or maybe he should just hope that someone invented a better way to travel. He thought of the Wizarding World, and doubted it would happen any time soon. Perhaps he should ask the twins. The thought made his heart clench. It was so automatic, thinking of them as a set. They were creative, inventive; they would have come up with something. It might have turned everybody into a parakeet on the other side, but it would have worked without the discomfort of existing forms of magical travel.

The house was modestly sized, from what Harry could see. It wasn’t overtly magical, not odd like the Burrow or Luna’s house, and it was elegant, not huge and cold like Malfoy's house, but even Harry could see that things went together well, that the owners were people of note. Petunia Dursley would cheerfully commit murder to have her house show such natural style. He hadn’t remembered noticing the last time he was here, but then, he’d had other things on his mind.

It was probably more Mrs Tonks’ bearing than the house itself, but Harry felt under-dressed in his robes, a bit too long for him—borrowed as they were from Terry Boot, who was volunteering at Hogwarts as well—and his trousers from the Weasley hand-me-down cupboard. He would have to check again with Hermione to see if she had managed to find the beaded bag, which had somehow gotten lost in the course of the battle. When he thought of all that was in there, he certainly hoped they found it. He was sure they would. Not to find it would be unthinkable. He turned to greet Andromeda Tonks, who smiled warmly and gave welcome.

A whimper came from the cradle next to her, and Mrs. Tonks lifted the squirming bundle out of it and into her lap. "Harry Potter, allow me to introduce Teddy Lupin."

Harry was amazed. Teddy was tiny, although Harry wasn’t sure how big babies were supposed to be. Teddy couldn’t be more than a month old, Harry thought, maybe less. And he was an orphan, just like him. Suddenly, Harry felt a surge of protectiveness toward the tiny human. He wondered if this is what Sirius had felt for him: the sudden desire that Teddy never feel unloved. That he always had someone to turn to, to ask questions of, and to show his childish drawings to. That he had someone with whom he could share all the little events in his life. And something more. Harry wanted to make sure that Teddy grew up in a world without the fear he had known. There would be no Dark Lords in Teddy’s future. Harry didn’t know how he could accomplish that, but he resolved to do so.

She arched an eyebrow at his expression. "Would you like to hold him?"

At Harry's nod, she gently placed the baby in his arms. Teddy smiled, gurgling at him, his short crop of hair changing colours from green to purple to red and back to green. Harry grasped him into a hug, thinking of Remus, and Tonks, and Sirius, and all the people that he would have liked to be there for his godson. Harry rocked the small form, and hoped he and the woman before him, who he barely knew, would be enough.

When Harry looked up at Mrs. Tonks, his eyes were suspiciously bright. She nodded, and offered him a biscuit, saying "You'll do, Harry. We have a great many things to discuss."

"We do." Harry was learning to listen, and Mrs, Tonks apparently had some things to say. He took a bite of the biscuit off the plate sitting next to the tea set on the low table in front of him, and chewed it thoroughly.

“I want to talk to you about responsibilities.”

Harry gulped. This was not what he’d wanted to talk about. He was just getting out from under a task that had weighed him down since he first heard the prophesy. But, looking down at Teddy, he couldn’t but feel that this might just be something he’d be willing to take on. A little piece of Remus, and of Tonks, and someone that would grow up to be entirely himself.

"Responsibilities?"

“Yes, dear. It is my task to see to the funerals, and I need your consent.”

And as suddenly as the weight was placed, it was gone. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "What do you need my consent to do?"

“You are the Black heir. Sirius left everything to you, including the responsibilities he himself ignored. I'm sorry, Harry, to have to ask you this, but do you intend to force me to inter Nymphadora with the Blacks?”

"What? NO! She’d have hated that!" Harry paused, mustering up the courage to ask what he had come to ask.

"But... I wanted to ask you something. About the funeral..." He paused again. "I didn't know about all the werewolf laws. And, Remus was the only one left of the ones who ... would’ve taken care of me if they could, when I was little. My parents died before I could remember, and there was never a body for my godfather. So, even if there isn't a body... I was wondering if we could remember him too. Remus, I mean. Along with Tonks."

“That's very generous of you, Harry. Are you thinking with your head, or your heart?”

"What do you mean?”

“Do you know, Harry, what it means to be the head of a magical family? I ask, only because you may not know, raised as you were.” The older woman set down her teacup suddenly. “Good gracious, you're head of two magical families!”

"I am?"

“Yes, Harry. You are Heir to the Blacks and Head of the Potters. You have a very important role to fill there.”

“Wait. You say I am Heir to the Blacks? I know Sirius left me his house and personal possessions, but—“

“Do you mean to tell me that you were never informed of what that meant?”

“Dumbledore came to me after Sirius’ will was discovered. He told me that Sirius had left me everything. He listed money added to my Gringotts vault, and personal possessions. We went through those at Gr—his house.” The habits of the past few years were hard to break, even now that he was one of the twenty-odd secret keepers for the Order’s erstwhile Headquarters.

Mrs. Tonks' lips twitched. “I know where you mean Harry.”

“We tested whether the house was indeed mine, but Kreacher had to obey me, so we knew it was. Dumbledore said that meant that Sirius had done the will correctly.”

“He was right. You would not have been able to inherit that house unless you had been accepted by Black as an Heir. That would have been some fancy spellwork on his part to open Black to you, all things considered.”

“Because I’m not a Black?”

“Oh, that part was not so difficult. Your great grandmother was born a Black. He would only have had to lay out the bloodline to have that accepted so that you could be his adopted heir. No, the difficult part would have been your mother. The Black family enchantments were woven with the Black motto in mind.”

“Toujours Pur.”

“Exactly. But, as the house allowed you to inherit, Sirius must have rewoven the family enchantments.”

Harry imagined Sirius, sitting alone at Grimmauld Place, researching how to turn the enchantments on his family line from their original purpose, just so that he could inherit. It was something he knew Sirius would have taken delight in, aligning his heritage with his own choices, and sticking it to his mother at the same time. Had he done that then, or even earlier, when Harry was still a baby, and his parents were still alive? But then wouldn’t Mrs Black have noticed? She would’ve been alive. He remembered the screeching woman in the portrait, and felt sure that she would have found out about the attempt to change the magics, if she had been alive at the time.

“Dumbledore ought to have known that for you to inherit the house, meant you also were eligible to inherit the House. He said nothing?”

It took a moment for Harry to parse the difference between house and House, but there was something in her tone that made the meaning come clear. “I guess he had other things on his mind. Voldemort was just getting going, since he had been revealed, and everyone was scrambling.”

“We’ll leave that aside for the moment. Done is done. The fact is, that you are now, or will be as soon as you accept your responsibilities, the head of two magical families. What do you intend to do about it?”

Harry had never thought about it. He was always aware of the Malfoys as a magical family, because Malfoy made such a big deal about it. And everyone had made a big deal about him, but that was because of the whole Voldemort vs. Boy Who Lived thing. But he was just Harry. He never noticed Arthur Weasley as having a special role other than being father to the Weasley children and doing his job in the Ministry and with the Order.

"What does a head of the family do?"

“As relates to our discussion, you could demand that Nymphadora be interred in the Black mausoleum, for the benefit of the family's magics. The head of the family makes policy for the entire family. So, should you allow Nymphadora's service to be elsewhere, the whole family will have to abide by your wishes. You have the right to command any living Black on any matters relating to family honour and magic.”

"I don’t understand."

“When wizards die, Harry, they are buried or interred with their families. Surely you knew that?”

This whole conversation was going so far afield from what he had originally intended. "Well, I suppose. But my parents are buried in Godric's Hollow. I don't think that was a Wizards-only cemetery. And Dumbledore was interred at Hogwarts. That was the only funeral I've ever been to, Muggle or magical."

“Dumbledore was different, Harry. Over the years, he channelled his family magics into Hogwarts. Abeforth doesn't believe in the old ways, so he didn't mind.”

"I'm going to need help with this, aren't I? Nothing of this was taught at Hogwarts."

“Your aunt never told you?”

“My aunt told me that my parents died in a car crash. I first found out about the wizarding world when I got my Hogwarts letter.”

“She told you—” A spark of fury lit in Mrs Tonks’ eyes. “Were you even told you were the Head of a Family?”

“Well, I knew that my parents were dead, and that I had no other relatives or the Dursleys wouldn’t have had to take me in. But—nothing like what you are implying.”

“We will arrange for you to get the information you need.”

“From where?”

“I’ll have to ask a few people. Don’t worry, I’ll be discrete. I have been out of touch with the Black family, for obvious reasons, and I would not want to ask most of them. Narcissa might know...”

Harry looked up at the name. “Malfoy? No!”

“She is my sister. And although she is Lucius’ responsibility now, she is and has always been a Black. That never changes.”

Harry suddenly remembered Narcissa Malfoy lying to Voldemort for him, desperate for word of her son. Perhaps she was not as cold as he had always assumed.

Andromeda got a thoughtful look on her face. “She will have to be invited to the funeral. Not that I think she’d come, the way things are.”

"Wait. Tonks was cast out, or disowned, or something, from the Black family. Right? Like Sirius? Oh! I'm sorry. You were too."

Harry tried to remember the Black tapestry, feeling horrible for bringing it up.

“Yes, well, my aunt was quite mad, Harry, but family traditions resonate deeply.”

Harry took a deep breath. “Do you want to be part of the Black family again? Could I do that? If you wanted?"

Mrs Tonks voice was suddenly soft. “Oh, yes, Harry. You could do that.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Let me first tell you what I would like for Nymphadora. Then you can tell me what you would allow. Then, I will explain how the wizarding world will look at all sides, and then, you can make an educated choice. Agreed?”

Harry nodded. “Yes.”

“As to whether I want to re-join the Black family or not, first let's see what you decide to do with regard to these other matters.”

Harry was feeling like he was being pulled in five different directions. He wasn’t ready for any of this. He had just come here because Remus needed a memorial—because Harry needed a memorial for Remus, as a symbol of everything he had lost. He only wanted to go to a memorial for someone that he cared about. He wasn’t ready for this level of responsibility. Suddenly he was a godfather, and the head of two families, with responsibilities that he had no knowledge of.

Harry took a deep breath. "That sounds like a good idea. One thing at a time, then. What would you like for Tonks?"

“Not the mausoleum.” Andromeda stated, her voice flat. “She was afraid of it her entire life.”

"I can see that. Even living in—” Harry paused, then realized it was somewhat idiotic to keep referring to the house obliquely, especially as it was no longer being used as Headquarters, and Voldemort was dead, and he owned it, and he either had to trust Tonks’ mother or not. “This is silly. The address of Sirius’ house is number twelve Grimmauld Place.” He continued more formally. “And even living there was no picnic.”

Mrs Black raised a quizzical brow at the phrase.

“The place was... unpleasant.”

“I can imagine. But besides that place, there is the Black family estate. I can’t imagine that is in much better repair than the place I remember in town must be, after all this time. The Mausoleum is on the estate.” She stopped, considered for a moment, and then set her teacup down on the table.

“She chose Remus, Harry.” Mrs Tonks continued. “Let her go to ash with him.”

"She won't be able to be with Remus' ashes... The Ministry destroyed them."

“Oh dear,” said Mrs Tonks. “I did not think those measures would be used. Why didn't you stop them, Harry?”

"No one told me until it was already done."

Her eyes flashed with anger. "They should not have dared. Harry, you will have to take my word for some things, and put your mind to learning others. That should never have happened."

She gazed at Harry, until he began to feel very uncomfortable.

"McGonagall said it was Ministry law."

“Family magic takes precedence, and the old cat knows it.” She paused.

“Do you," she drawled, "care to make a point?"

Harry thought about it. The thought of that was... satisfying, although probably not for the reason she was imagining. Everything he heard about the werewolf laws was horrible. "I think I would." He could hear a matching, satisfied drawl in his voice, and wondered how he sounded so... conniving all of a sudden. He felt like he should twirl his moustache. He didn’t think he could deal with one thing more at present, though, as lovely as the thought was.

"I think that might have to wait until after the funeral… Won’t it?" Suddenly, Harry was unsure. The methodical pace of the Hogwarts clean-up had been very relaxing, and he was not ready for the furore and conflicting priorities of real life.

“No, I think you can make a point with the funeral itself, Harry. If you decide to do this, it will be a very powerful message.”

She sketched out for him a scenario in which Nymphadora and Remus would have the full wizarding funeral rites despite the absence of Remus’ body, but rather than Black family vault internment, she could be placed in a new, smaller vault on the grounds, with a plaque to commemorate Remus.

“With that action, Harry, you say 'The Black Family takes care of its own.' You will have paid full respect to the old ways, honoured a brave man, a hero of the war against Voldemort, and poked the Ministry in the eye.”

Her gaze softened. "Dora would have liked that."

Harry thought about it. Sirius had been one of Remus' best friends. And Tonks was his wife. But the Blacks had not taken care of Sirius, or Tonks. "Before I do that, thought, I think the Black family should welcome Tonks home. And Sirius. Can I do that after the fact? I mean, after ... you know…"

Harry was feeling like he had stuck his foot in his mouth... again.

"Sirius can't give his magic to the family, Harry. Not past the Veil.”

Harry’s stomach clenched at the reminder that Sirius was lost to him. He wondered if he would ever be able to think of the man without the wash of grief and guilt.

“But to remember him with a marker,” Mrs Tonks continued, “and as Head, to say all is forgiven? That would be appropriate."

"I just think, it doesn't seem right to inter them on Black land unless they are welcomed back. Because then the family, the ones already dead, would not be ... oh this sounds stupid... _kind_ to them." Harry remembered how important it was to have his family following him when he went to face Voldemort.

"So, if I welcome them back, will that let the land or the family, or whatever, know to – Merlin!” He interrupted himself in frustration. “This is all so esoteric, and I don't know what I'm talking about, but I have started to realize that the dead are still part of us, and we of them. In more ways than Muggles think. I just want for them both to be content."

Harry flushed, embarrassed at his confused outburst.

"Harry, the Blacks are a proud and ancient House, and my aunt was a very determined woman, but I assure you, my gran would have been delighted to dandle Teddy on her knee, motto or no. That you are beginning to understand some things makes me feel a great deal of relief."

"Oh." Harry wasn't sure what to feel. He still did not understand anything, but it felt like something had been decided, if he could only figure out what.

"So, are we agreed? I will undertake to have the tapestry repaired, if you can find a way to get it to me. You will allow us to honour the memory of Sirius, and the lives of Dora and Remus. The Black family will follow all the forms." She paused, then gave a definitive nod. "You have your answer, young man; the Black family, with you at the Head, is one to which I would very much like to return."

Harry did not expect that to feel as good as it did. He had offered because it was the right thing to do, but from the way she said it, her acceptance was an acceptance of _him._

“That being said, there are a few other things we should settle. First, we should go see the Black family land, and inspect the small mausoleum. It has been a long time since I have been there, and I suspect it has also been a while since anyone has been there. It may not be in the best condition. We’ll have to see whether we can get it into a condition to bring Dora to. Also, you need to decide whether you will allow outsiders onto the grounds to attend the funeral. At one time, the Black family was large enough that there would be enough witches and wizards within the family to complete the rite. Now...”

“I would like to invite my friends Ron and Hermione. And the rest of the Weasleys, if they want to attend. There might be some others who want to remember Remus.”

“Yes, in that Order of Albus’.” She paused, then quirked her lips. “Weasleys at a Black funeral on the Black estate. There will be some rolling about in the Mausoleum on that day.” Andromeda Tonks smiled, and for a second, he saw a family resemblance to Sirius.

“Once you officially accept us back into the family, I will be able to enter, and Narcissa and her son will already have that right. Others will be by your permission only. I will see to a guest list, and you should consider who you would like to invite. The invitations can be charmed to allow entry, or even charmed as Portkeys.

Harry grimaced at the thought.

“Yes, I have heard of your unfortunate experience with a Portkey. We can charm them with a phrase, keyed to the name of the recipient and a particular time, so that only upon saying the phrase, within a particular span of time, can the person on the invitation activate the Portkey. Will that be satisfactory?”

Harry nodded, grateful that she understood.

“Well then. The next thing for it, is for you to accept the Black family.”

“What do I have to do?”

“We’ll need the will. Either it contains the enchantments within the parchment, or it will give you a clue as to how to go about activating them.”

“Where would it be? I know Dumbledore saw it. Do you think he’d have put a copy in the Headmaster’s office?”

“If it is like most family wills, a copy would be filed at the Ministry, by Ministry law, and a copy would be filed at the family estate. The writer would put the original in a safe place. My guess is that Dumbledore may have seen the Ministry copy, or possibly found the original.”

“If Sirius wrote it after escaping from Azkaban, he would have been either on the run or locked up at Grimmauld Place.”

“If he was on the run, he could have put it anywhere. But he spent quite a bit of time at Grimmauld Place. I think that would be a good place to start looking.”

Harry hesitated. “While Hermione, Ron and I were out looking for what was needed to defeat Voldemort, we had to stop at Grimmauld Place. We searched it quite thoroughly. As did someone before us.” Harry remembered the fragments of a letter that he had found there. Snape had gotten in. And Snape had been in love with his mother. Suddenly he wished he had stayed at the Burrow, weeding with Percy. Life had seemed so much simpler. He wanted a chance to finally be a child, or … just Harry, and here he was expected to take on yet another adult responsibility. Sirius had never done these things. Harry had never even known that Sirius was Head of the Black family, not really. So why did _he_ need to do them? All he had wanted was a chance to say goodbye to Remus. A chance to have a funeral for someone he could pretend was family. Why did he need to become the Head of House for not only the Potter family but also the Blacks, only one of which he loved well enough to even _call_ family?

But he had seen the wistful look in Mrs Tonks eyes, when he mentioned welcoming her, and her daughter, back into the Black family. It seemed such a little thing to do to give Mrs Tonks a measure of peace. She had lost her husband, and her daughter, and had been disowned from her own family. Besides, welcoming the two of them back would create yet another link with his godson, and in a way with Remus. Welcoming them into the Black family would give him back a family of sorts as well. And there was very little he would not do for that.

He didn’t suppose it was such a big thing to become Head of a family, since there were so few people in the family. In the Potter family, it was only himself. And in the Black family, it would be Mrs Tonks, who was more than competent enough to look after herself, and Teddy, who he was responsible for anyway.

So, for Remus, for Tonks, for Mrs Tonks, for little Teddy, and to help Sirius play one last prank on the Ancient and Noble House of Black, Harry would do what was required.

“Okay, first to Grimmauld Place, then if it isn’t there, to the Headmaster’s office. Why not just ask at the Ministry?”

“Have you been paying attention to what is happening at the Ministry these days?” Mrs Tonks asked him with a wry quirk to her lips.

“Oh. I suppose I’d just as soon let them get on with it,” Harry said, remembering the chaos Hermione described. “Grimmauld Place it is, then.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews keep me writing. Please let me know what you think!
> 
> Disclaimer: Harry Potter, his friends, enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to J.K. Rowling.


	11. Harry Potter's Very Busy Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: As I was posting this chapter, I noticed that I had not posted the final section of chapter 10. (Oops!) If you read chapter 10 when it was first posted, you will want to go back and read the section called A Meeting with Andromeda from Chapter 10, or this one will make very little sense.

**Accepting Black**

 

 

_May 5, 1998_

 

The Floo connection to the kitchen at Grimmauld place had never been closed. Part of that, Harry supposed, was the Fidelius Charm. If the Floo Network Office didn’t know the Floo connection existed, they could not shut it down. That, and Voldemort’s ministry probably wanted to catch someone trying to travel there by Floo powder. They could not shut down what they could not find, but they did have a watch on the Floo Network, and would have been happy to trap the trio if they had used the Floo. Harry was just as glad it had never been closed; he did not think a request to open a Floo connection to a building that was not currently in use would be high on their priorities, as busy as they were.

 

Entering Grimmauld Place through the Floo evoked memories, most of which Harry would just as soon not deal with. Memories of Sirius, of Dumbledore leading Order meetings, of Mrs Weasley cooking for the whole bunch of them, of Snape spitting vitriol every time he saw Harry. He tottered for a moment, dizzy from the Floo, then stepped aside for Mrs Tonks to come through, hoping that there was not some aspect of being a secret keeper that was unknown to him and would prevent her from getting through the wards.

 

She arrived successfully, to Harry’s relief.

 

“Oh, my. I have not seen this place for many years. It does look a little the worse for wear. People were living here?” she asked Harry with some disbelief.

 

“It was more a place to have meetings than a home. But yes, those who needed to live here did so. For some of us, it was too dangerous to live in more welcoming surroundings.” He could not quite repress the bitterness in his voice. He avoided having to see the gentle look on Mrs Tonks’ face when a small, ugly creature launched itself at Harry’s belly.

 

“Master! Master has come back! Kind Master has returned!”

 

Mrs Tonks gave an astonished look at the small being. “Kreacher? That is Kreacher? What did you do to him?”

 

“Me? Nothing!”

 

“He was absolutely devoted to my aunt, and-- not so much to those who did not follow her views. You must have done something.”

 

“Oh, that.” Harry looked down, slightly embarrassed. Dumbledore had been right: Kreacher’s behaviour was a result of how he was treated. He didn’t like to think of the end results of his – and Sirius’ – behaviour toward the house elf. “I gave him something that belonged to Regulus. It was important to him.”

 

Extricating himself from Kreacher’s grip with a careful pat on the house elf’s shoulder, Harry stepped off the wide hearthstone flooring and continued into the kitchen, more out of habit from all the time the kitchen table had been the centre of the Order’s activities than any expectation that what they sought would be there.

 

_“Severus Snape…”_ Moody’s voice accompanied Albus Dumbledore’s ghostly image. Harry froze for a moment.

 

“Shi—ummm, blast. Sorry, I forgot about that.” Turning toward the spectre, he whispered “I did not kill you.” The phantom exploded. For a moment, Harry wondered what Snape would have felt when he came and ransacked the house. He could not have said the phrase, not truthfully. And to lie about it… given what Harry now knew, he wondered if Snape could have spoken that lie. It was all too complicated. Between Dumbledore and Snape, Harry had been helped, hurt, praised and belittled, but worst of all, he had been used. He couldn’t think about it right then, maybe never.

 

“Harry, where do you plan to live once the Hogwarts repair is completed?” Andromeda Tonks’ question woke him to his surroundings.

 

“I hadn’t thought that far out. All I could focus on was Voldemort.” Harry was pleased to see Mrs Tonks did not flinch.

 

“Would you live here? If it were cleaned and made liveable?”

 

“Kreacher cleaned up the place really well last time we were here. And he's a pretty decent cook,” Harry told her. “But I’m not sure I’m ready to live in Sirius’ house.” Everywhere he turned there was one more thing to consider, one more thing to take care of. Is this what being an adult was like? Suddenly, he missed his time at Hogwarts. He never got to finish. He wasn't ready to give up the only home he had ever known, especially after missing the entire last year. He wasn't ready to face all these decisions.

 

Kreacher hurried over. “Master? Kreacher is able to be making food for Master. Is Master needing lunch?”

 

“Not right now, Kreacher. I'm here looking for something, a piece of parchment or a scroll that Sirius would've spent time working on.”

 

“Oh! Kreacher sees Master Sirius, the bad boy who was never good to his mother, working, working many days on a parchment. Master Sirius wrote on many parchments. Kreacher sees him tearing and burning parchments and writing again, until Master Sirius had just one. And the bad Master Sirius used his wand on it.”

 

“That sounds like it.” Mrs Tonks commented.

 

‘Kreacher, do you know where he put it?”

 

The house elf wailed. “It is gone! Kreacher has failed Master Harry!” He looked as if he was about to start banging his head against the fireplace from which they had just emerged.

 

Mrs Black’s portrait in the entry hall hadn’t awakened yet, but if Kreacher kept up like this, it wouldn’t be long. Harry shuddered at the thought. “Shhhh, Kreacher, please don’t hurt yourself. Just tell me what happened.”

 

Kreacher turned from the wall. “Master Sirius put it away. Master Sirius was being clever; he hid it behind a board in the Master’s room. Kreacher saw him. Master Sirius cast a spell, and the parchment rolled itself up, and he put it behind the wooden wall.”

 

Sirius’ room had been wainscoted. “It isn’t still there?” At Kreacher’s vigorous shaking of the head, Harry prodded, “where is it now? Did someone take it?”

 

“Master Sirius made a spell, and the gaps between the boards went away. But when Master Sirius left here...” Kreacher lowered his head. “Master Harry should punish Kreacher for what Kreacher did that day. Master Harry cared about Master Sirius and ...”

 

“Kreacher, stop.” Harry’s voice shook. He did not want to remember that his house elf, now so loyal, had once betrayed Sirius in the worst way possible. If Harry let himself remember, he was not sure he could be kind to Kreacher, and it was obvious that Kreacher needed kindness. “Just continue with the story.”

 

“Master is kind. The night Master Sirius was leaving this house, a few hours after he was leaving, the board was disappearing and the parchment was appearing and the parchment was flying over to the desk in Master Sirius’ room. Kreacher saw! But Kreacher did not touch. The next day the parchment was gone.”

 

“Who all were in the house the next day?” Mrs Tonks asked. Kreacher didn't respond.

 

“Kreacher, please answer the question,” Harry prodded.

 

“The white haired wizard, the long nosed wizard--”

 

_“Snape_ was here that day?”

 

“Harry. We know Professor Dumbledore read it. It is reasonable to assume he was the one who found it, then. But now, we know he did not put it back.”

 

“So, to Hogwarts next?”

 

“Indeed.” She gave a firm nod.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After a quick face-only Floo call to the Headmistress’ office, the two of them stepped through the Floo with a burst of green flame. Harry landed on the far side with only a bit of a wobble. Okay, a stagger, but he had been able to catch himself. If he travelled by Floo several times a day, Harry wondered if eventually he’d be able to do it gracefully. Some witches and wizards seemed to do everything with grace and elegance. He remembered Lucius Malfoy’s cold grace. He could not imagine _him_ ever stumbling out of a Floo. Was it a pureblood thing, or was it practice? By the end of today, with all the floo travel he’d be doing, he would get perhaps a glimmer of an answer to that.

 

“So, Mr Potter, how can I help you?” McGonagall rose from behind her desk as they stepped into the office.

 

“We’re looking for Sirius’ will.”

 

“Whatever for? Harry, I assure you that the monies and properties that Sirius left you have been transferred to your name and vaults. What could you need from the will after all of this time?”

 

Andromeda Tonks drew herself up. “Minerva, I do not believe that is any of your business. The will should have been between Harry and Sirius Black, and whomever Sirius assigned as executor. But I will tell you that I am disappointed that Harry was never informed of his role and responsibilities as Head of the Black family.”

 

_“What?”_

 

“You didn’t know?” Mrs Tonks asked.

 

“It hadn’t occurred to me that he was. Albus told me that Sirius left everything to Harry, but I assumed that it was just Sirius’ property that he left, and not the Black estate!”

 

“Sirius was the last, living Black who had not married into another family. Even though my aunt burnt him off the family tree, he carried Black blood, and she did not complete the ritual of banishment, else he never would have been able to return to Grimmauld Place.”

 

McGonagall cast a cautious look at Harry.

 

“Yes, I told her. Voldemort is dead, most of the Death Eaters are in hiding or captured, and I sincerely doubt that she would suddenly decide to aid them after they have killed her family.” Harry looked over to Mrs Tonks, slightly abashed at himself for talking to the Headmistress that way, and also worried that he might have awakened her grief. Even though she had been very practical about the funerals, and about helping him, he could not help but think she had to be in pain. He knew _he_ was. It was only managing all the practical details that kept him from going to his room in Gryffindor Tower, closing the bed curtains around him, and bawling. He didn’t want to bring up someone else’s pain, especially after she had been so kind and helpful, and had told him things that he needed to know.

 

But Andromeda Tonks looked at him not in grief and pain, but with a glimmer of pride in her eyes, as if to affirm that that was exactly the kind of strength she wanted from the wizard who would soon be head of her family.

 

“So you understand the need. The Black family has been without its Head for almost two years. While it has declined in the recent past, I will not see the family I was born to die out due to negligence.”

 

“I do see. But what do you expect Harry to do? And, if you will pardon me for being blunt, how does it concern you?”

 

“It’s the funerals,” Harry put in. “It started with the funerals. When I went to see her about Tonks and Remus, we ended up talking about quite a bit more, and –”

 

“Harry, there is no need go into detail. Suffice it to say, Harry has chosen to accept his role, and we need to clarify what is necessary. To do that, we need the document.” Mrs Tonks put in.

 

“I’m not sure where it is. I know Albus took it, but don’t know what he did afterward.”

 

“I believe I can help there,” a familiar voice added, causing Harry to startle. He had forgotten about the portrait.

 

“Albus. Good to see you again,” Mrs Tonks said, greeting him warmly. “I expect you have been listening in. I wonder why you kept such important information from Harry.”

 

“At the time, there were other considerations. It would not have been safe for young Harry to do what was required, and as the Black family had no ... active members, there did not seem to be much urgency. And the other obligations would have put him at risk.”

 

“Albus Dumbledore! You know very well you had no right to interfere with a Family matter!”

 

“He was underage, Andie. Who should I have consulted? Narcissa perhaps? Should I have checked with Bellatrix? They were the ones who had the right to make decisions at that point, and I was not going to let them, either of them, have that kind of leverage in Harry’s life.” Harry had rarely heard Dumbledore speak quite so vehemently, even when he was alive.

 

“You could have come to me.” Mrs Tonks spoke quietly.

 

“You will pardon my bluntness, Andie, but you were not exactly in a place to make decisions for the Black family, nor would the magics have allowed it, as Narcissa and Bellatrix were both alive, and Narcissa free. There was no overt suspicion on Narcissa Malfoy at that point. Her husband, yes, but Narcissa could have emerged blameless. And with Harry underage, she may well have ended up his guide. I could not take that chance.”

 

“It wasn’t your chance to take. You never did recognize the importance of family lines, Albus. Just because I supported you, Albus, does not mean I agree with all of your decisions. But that is two years in the past, and at the present, we have need of the will.”

 

“My boy, is this really what you want? Are you sure you don’t want to wait a bit before taking on such responsibility? I’m not sure you are fully aware of what this will involve.”

 

Harry gazed up into Dumbledore’s concerned eyes. “Then I’ll learn. It’s for Remus. And Tonks. And Teddy, my godson, who deserves to have all the advantages I can create for him.”

 

Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes started twinkling. Harry was not sure how paint on canvas could twinkle, but there it was.

 

“I understand, Harry my boy. I suspect even I underestimated your ability to love.”

 

Harry groaned. Somehow Dumbledore made it sound altogether too simple. It was not simple. But Harry supposed that Dumbledore was right that it was because he cared that he was doing this.

 

Dumbledore continued. “It is in the Headmaster’s—excuse me, the Headmistress’ library. There is a book by P Foote. It appears to be about various types of dogs.”

 

Harry looked up at the Headmaster in surprise. Somehow the fact that the book was so appropriate made Harry feel warm inside. Dumbledore had apparently put quite a bit of thought into it.

 

“If you hold the book in your hands, and say the phrase “It's a dog's life,” it will open as a box instead of a book. The will is inside.”

 

The will was still there.

 

_I, Sirius Black, of the House of Black, do hereby bequeath all that I own, including monies, personal possessions, and all real estate, including unplottable and otherwise hidden properties, to Harry James Potter._

_Harry Potter is the son of my heart and my mind. With this, I wish to state my intent, of heart and soul and magic, that the world should treat him as my son from this day forward. Should he wish to accept this, he may find the way home._

_I give him all my love._

_Sirius Orion Black_

 

“Kreacher said it took him several days to write this.” Harry commented, wonderingly.

 

“He wrote the important things.”

 

Harry swallowed. Sirius had always made it clear that he loved Harry, from the first time they met. He said he thought of him as a son, but for him to actually offer to make it real was knowledge Harry would hold close to his heart.

 

“He wrote it as a scion of the house of Black,” Mrs Tonks commented, “which means, when he gives you all that he owns, he includes the Black heritage. So that is now confirmed. And he made it clear that he is magically claiming you as a son.”

 

“How could he do that? I mean, wouldn’t I have to be descended from the Black family?”

 

Dumbledore’s portrait interjected at that point. “Your father’s father married a Black, Harry. You and Sirius are second cousins through his mother, and third cousins through his father.”

 

“You and I are second cousins as well.” Mrs Tonks added.

 

It had never occurred to Harry that he had family other than the Dursleys, and they didn’t count. He had actual blood family, through his father. He sank onto the cushioned chair.

 

“Sirius didn’t say how to accept the Black Heritage.”

 

“He used the word home.”

 

“That wouldn’t have been Grimmauld Place.” Harry mused aloud. “He never thought of that place as home.”

 

“It was not the Black home. Orion and Walpurga lived there, but Arcturus, who was the last Head of the Black family, lived at the Black Estate. That is the centre of the family.”

 

“Mrs Black wasn’t the Head? Her portrait certainly acts as if she was.”

 

“No. While she was born a Black, and married one as well, it was Uncle Orion who was in the primary line. And his father outlived him.”

 

“So, we have to go to the Black Estate? Do you know where it is?”

 

“I do. But it is more than that. See this mark, right after the word home?”

 

Harry looked at the parchment. He hadn’t taken Ancient Runes, but he could recognize it as one. “Did Sirius take Ancient Runes? He didn’t seem the type.”

 

“He was very bright, without even trying. But he would not have had to take any classes to know this rune. Any Black would know what it is, and where it is. And this over here tells you what to do.” She pointed to a splotch of what looked like brown paint, flecking off the parchment.

 

McGonagall stared at it. “Sirius would never—“

 

“He would and he did,” Mrs Tonks replied shortly. “And you can keep your prejudices out of this discussion.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**The Black Estate**

_May 5, 1998_

 

After a silent walk through the corridors of Hogwarts, including a couple of detours around debris and blocked passages, and across the grass and past the edge of the Apparition wards, Mrs Tonks took Harry by the shoulders, took a moment to get ready, and then Harry experienced the now familiar sensation feeling of being squeezed through a narrow tube. The next thing he knew, they were in an open field, bright with spring green. He took several deep breaths to try to quell the nausea, and after a few moments, turned in a slow circle to look around. The ground was mostly flat, with only the occasional hill. Over to the west was a wooded area, perhaps even a forest.

 

The fields appeared to stretch into the distance in the other three directions, and Harry wondered if they had arrived in the right place.

 

“Come here. We have to get through the wards first. She drew him over to stand on a circle of black soil surrounded by a low brick border. The weeds that grew everywhere else did not grow inside the circle. Taking a knife, she pricked a finger, and let her blood drip onto a stone on the other side of the circle from where they entered. Harry flashed back to Dumbledore, smearing his blood on the walls of the cavern where the fake Horcrux had been kept. He shuddered.

 

“It’s just for recognition, Harry. Don’t let other people’s prejudices get in your way. My blood will work for the first part. I may not be Black in name at present, but I was born so, and am Black in blood. You need to say the next part: _‘Toujours Pur_ _. Credo.’_ Mean it, even if you have to redefine what it means to you,” she told him.

 

Harry remembered what the words meant. He was not sure if he wanted to claim belief in that saying. Redefine it. Always Pure. He had rid himself of the taint of Voldemort’s soul. That was a purity he could believe in. He said the words fervently.

 

The air shimmered as if it were much hotter than an early day in May, and suddenly, in the near distance, a house appeared out of the rippling haze.

 

Harry was not sure if the structure should be called a house, a mansion, or what, but whatever it was, it was dilapidated and overgrown with vines.

 

“Those were grape vines. England is a bit far north for the best grapes, but with just a touch of magical attention, they could produce passable wine. With a bit more magic, the wine made a good base for several potions. It was nothing the Blacks would serve, of course, but it had its uses.”

 

They made their way through the overgrown field, and then through the overgrown courtyard.

 

As they reached the porch, Mrs Tonks brushed her fingers down the left side of the door, and gestured to Harry to knock. He did, wondering why he was knocking on the door of an empty house, especially one that was supposed to be his, which still boggled his mind.

 

The door clicked, and Mrs Tonks reached with the still blood-tipped finger, and pushed open the door.

 

The air smelled stale, as if the windows had not been opened in years, which was probably the case. Sheets of cloth were draped over furniture, and everything was very still. Harry felt like an intruder.

 

“Guests would come in through here, or through the Floo over there.” She gestured toward a huge, marble-lined stone fireplace. “Over that way is the dining room, and there was the men’s study.” She led him further in, and there was a parlour with faded lilac walls and green-hued tapestries and rug. There was also a huge stairway toward the middle of the room, a bit off to the left, which arched in a slow half-circle. “Upstairs is the master suite, guest rooms, and so on. There is another staircase in the back of the upstairs hall that leads downstairs again to one of the Black libraries, and another study.

 

Harry just looked around. The house was huge, but all he could think of was how much time it would take to clean. He wondered if they had house elves. Probably.

 

“When I was a little girl, my Great Uncle Arcturus was head of the Black family. He and Aunt Melania hosted the family gatherings. I was here for Bella’s Coming of Age. Of course, by the time Narcissa had hers, I had already been disowned.”

 

“What about yours?”

 

“That was the year they found out about Ted. It was not a pleasant year.”

 

“Oh.” Harry didn’t push. “So, what do I have to do here?”

 

“You accomplished the first test already. The House has accepted you as a member of the Black family. But to become Head, you will have to go deeper. The glyph Sirius drew tells us the next part. It symbolizes the core of the Black magics. Every member of the Black family is required to study it. We are brought to touch the glyph at birth, we begin studying its meanings at age seven, and learn of it within our own magics as soon as we are able to do so.

 

“You would not normally be asked to accept the Family until you had become familiar with the meanings of the glyph. As it is, the meanings will most likely flood you when you accept the family. But you will still need understanding. If you will allow it, I will undertake to guide you as you learn and understand what it is to be a Black.”

 

Harry thought of Sirius’ mother. Mrs Tonks had said she was insane. But so many people had said the Black family was irredeemably dark that he couldn’t believe it was just the one person. Mrs Tonks had been thrown out of the family, after all. Questions were tumbling over themselves in his mind, trying to get past his tongue. “I don’t know how to ask you this... Were you able to learn what I need to know before...?”

 

“It is required to learn it before coming of age. I did indeed learn what you need.”

 

“And will it be something I can... tolerate? It won’t change me, will it? I mean, I loved Sirius, and you and Tonks are both good people, but you were all cast out. If the Black family is the type to disown you, do I even want to take in its magics?”

 

“I can’t make that decision for you. Of course it will change you. All magic changes you.” Mrs Tonks stopped. She ran a fingertip along the back of a sofa, shaking off the dust. Turning to look out the window, she spoke, choosing her words carefully.

 

“The family magics themselves are neutral, Harry. They are about protecting the family, about the focus and drive of the family members. The flavour that drive takes on is up to the individual, and tradition in the Black family has certainly been dark, but the core of Black is learning. It is why the Black libraries are the best you’ll find.” She looked back toward Harry. “I won’t pretend that the Black family is anything other than a dark family. There will be parts of the Black heritage that you will find repugnant, I am sure. There will be parts of the magic you take in that you will have to transform before you feel comfortable with it. But the Black family once valued learning for its own sake, dark or light.

 

“Once you are the head of the Black family, you will be able to influence the interpretation of the glyph and our family motto. As head of the family, you will choose our direction. I believe I can trust your direction.” Her eyes grew stern. “I will also trust you to learn what it is to be Black before you start trying to change it. That will mean keeping an open mind about things you may have been trained to reject. Minerva McGonagall is not the only Hogwarts professor with her prejudices.”

 

“Are you talking about dark magic?”

 

“I am talking about learning about something before you accept or reject it. As head of the family, I will trust you to do your best by our family. Although I was disowned, I never stopped being a Black. The core values are written into my soul. I would hope that before you change our course, you learn about what you are changing.”

 

Harry took that in. He never liked it when people judged him, whether it was based on his ability to talk to snakes, or the whole Boy Who Lived thing. But dark magic had robbed him of his family and his childhood.

 

“Okay,’ he said slowly. “I’ll think about it.” After a moment he continued, “What was Professor McGonagall upset about?”

 

Mrs Tonks lifted one of the cloth coverings that draped over a sofa and folded it. She cast a quick spell and the remaining dust disappeared from the sofa, revealing it to be a soft, pale green with deep purple throw pillows, and she sat, still holding the cloth, and gestured for Harry to do likewise.

 

“Sirius placed a drop of blood on his will. Family magics are private, Harry, but the will has what is necessary. The glyph gives one piece of information. The blood gives another.”

 

“So to become head of the Black Family, I have to…”

 

“Blood calls to blood, Harry. The Heartroom will make it clear by its configuration what you are supposed to do. But the blood on the will indicates that you will have to sacrifice some of your own. Enough for you to be recognized as carrying Black blood.”

 

Harry gulped, remembering the night Voldemort was brought back. The memory of being helpless, tied to a stone in the cemetery, threatened to overcome him. He took a deep breath. Why would Sirius do that to him? He _knew_ what Harry had been through.

 

Mrs Tonks must have seen his face. “It is the way the Blacks have always done rituals of this import,” she said gently.

 

“How much blood?”

 

“That depends on what Sirius wanted for you and for the family. I expect the family magics will also have their say. I doubt Sirius would have wanted to burden you with six drops. Others amounts seem to apply. Nine or ten drops seem likely. Eight is possible.”

 

Harry stared at her.

 

“Did you never take Arithmancy?” Harry shook his head. “Did you ever study even the basic energy of numbers?”

 

“It wasn’t covered in any of my classes. Well, except for divination, but that never made much sense.”

 

“It should have been taught. It is one of the roots of magical theory, and has its influences everywhere: how many times you repeat a wand movement in an incantation, how many drops of something you add to a potion for a given effect. What _is_ Hogwarts teaching these days?”

 

At least she didn’t blame him for not knowing, Harry thought. Hermione would know this. Harry grinned. She would have five books for him to read about it, if he asked. Which he might do, come to think of it.

 

“This is simplification, but it will give you a sense of it. One is unity and individuality, two is dualism, balance and partnership, three is communication, four is stability or creation, five is action and life, six is returning, reaction, responsibility, seven is thought and the powers of mind. Eight is sacrifice for the sake of power, as well as the paradox of change and constancy which you get in cycles; this also brings power. Nine is interconnection and transformation. Ten is rebirth. And of course nought is everything and nothing. The higher numbers create more complicated magics, but usually, simpler is better. The number of drops you sacrifice will influence the outcome, it will influence your role as the head of the family.”

 

Drops, Harry thought. He could deal with drops. “So how will I know…?”

 

“One drop at a time. You’ll know.”

 

Harry hoped she knew what she was talking about. He felt woefully underprepared. He just wanted to make sure Remus had a memorial, and that it was with Tonks. They were married. It was right. How could it go from something so simple to something so overwhelming? Learning about a family history, and not even the Potter family history but another one, which he was somehow related to, and was supposed to take over, to somehow lead. It didn’t make any sense. How could he be in charge of Andromeda Tonks? She was so self-assured, and not in the cold way that some purebloods were, but like she knew exactly who she was.

 

“Does it really matter to you? I mean, this is the family that threw you out.”

 

“I'm a Black, Harry. On the tapestry or not, I belong.” She inhaled deeply.

 

“When I married Ted, I married into a Muggle family. I know what Muggles have to offer, their unique ways of looking at things. But I am a Witch. Ted’s family was delightful, but the fact remains they had no magical heritage. Harry, the feel of that magic uniting us during family ceremonies was one of the hardest things to give up when I chose Ted.”

 

She turned to face him, watching him intently. “I miss that, Harry. The comfort, the presence of the Noble and Ancient Magic. You can make it a proud House again, Harry, but first you need to know it.”

 

Harry looked down at his trainers. They looked shabby against the thick, deep green rug, even as dust-covered as the room was. The place, though dilapidated, was clearly once grand, part of a long tradition. And while Mrs Tonks had said he was related to the family, it didn’t feel real to him. Did that mean he really _was_ related to Teddy? And to Sirius?

 

It felt like Mrs Tonks had higher expectations than just taking on the name of Head of the Black family and making a few decisions in that role so that Remus and Tonks could be remembered together, at the Black estate. Suddenly he felt like he had when he became aware of the expectations the wizarding world had of the “Boy Who Lived.” “I’m not trained in any of this. What if I make a mistake?”

 

Mrs Tonks looked at him with an expression he was not sure how to interpret. “No one expects perfection from you, Harry,” she said softly.

 

“Tell that to the _Prophet_.”

 

“Be that as it may, _I_ don’t expect perfection. I just expect you to learn, and make your decisions with understanding. I trust your integrity for the rest.”

 

He doubted he would ever grow into these grand rooms. He was unsure whether he wanted to integrate the Family Black into his soul, after having just shed a dark soul. But for every Bellatrix in this family, there was a Sirius, or a Tonks. And he had said he would. Sirius had wanted him to do it. Mrs Tonks seemed to want this. It was for family.

 

Harry stood. “What do I do?”

 

“First we have to find the Heartroom.”

 

“Find it? Haven’t you been there before?”

 

“The way into the Heartroom changes.”

 

“Then how do we find it?”

 

“Come by the fireplace.” Mrs Tonks gestured to a spot on the floor. It didn’t look any different, but he moved to stand where she indicated. “Place your hand here, and think of your need to know the Black family. The room may not let me in. This is your task, as a candidate for Head of the family. Look for the glyph. Remember that acceptance goes both ways.”

 

Harry did as she directed, placing his hand on the smooth stone of the mantle. There was a slight bump where he placed his hand, and when he lifted his hand to look, he saw something that looked a little like the glyph on Sirius’ will, only incomplete. He gazed at it for a moment, and then replaced his hand. He thought of Sirius, of how much time he had missed, how many opportunities he had lost to get to know his godfather better. He thought of Tonks. He thought of a family he was related to, which he only knew from the outside.

 

The stone under his hand began to warm, and he could feel the bump writhing underneath his fingers. He imagined a hidden door opening, like a trick bookcase in a mystery story.

 

A tug behind his navel warned him, and suddenly he was in pitch darkness.

 

He jerked his wand from his robe pocket, berating himself for letting his guard down. Moody would have been disappointed. Just because Voldemort was dead, and most of his Death Eaters captured, didn’t mean they all were.

 

He couldn’t hear anything. He couldn’t see anything. He held himself very still and listened. The silence was absolute. No sound of breathing. His heart beat so quickly, he could feel his body shaking with its thrum.

 

“Mrs Tonks?” he whispered. No answer. Harry deliberately slowed his breathing back to something approximating normal.

 

_“Lumos.”_ The darkness didn’t recede.

 

_“LUMOS!”_ Nothing.

 

A tickling sensation pushed against his thoughts. _‘Protego!’_ He thought the word automatically, falling back on habit. The sensation pushed deeper, making his hair itch. Or his skin. Or his brain. It felt like Legilimency, but bore as much similarity to Snape’s attacks as feathers did to bludgers.

 

“Acceptance goes both ways.” Mrs Tonks’ final words rang in his mind. He couldn’t think she had betrayed him. He wouldn’t think that of her. His stomach clenched in pain at the thought. Other people he had trusted had turned on him, but what did she have to gain? He was trying to get to the Black family Heartroom… and he ended up here. Perhaps he was where he was supposed to be.

 

Did he really expect the Black family ritual for accepting a new Head of the family to be _tame?_ This was for Sirius, for Remus, for all the people he’d lost. This was to give back. He could do this for them.

 

Acceptance. He opened his mind.

 

Past thoughts and actions washed through him. His first memories, after that brief, painful glimpse of his mother’s last moments, was of bewildered hurt, when the Dursleys had not cared for him as they had Dudley. The hurt was buried under years of bitterness toward them, but underlying that was a child’s insistence that ‘family shouldn’t be that way.’ He re-experienced the joy at discovering the wizarding world. Events throughout his time at Hogwarts, and how he felt about various people.

 

There was prodding at his feelings toward Sirius: complicated, guilt at his death, anger at the man for making the wrong decisions, joy in knowing him. The prodding moved on and evoked his feelings about Malfoy, not so complicated, fury at what he had done, letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts, the memory of him stomping on Harry’s face in the Hogwarts Express, amusement at the ferret incident. Yet... Malfoy had not been able to kill Dumbledore. Dumbledore had wanted to give him a chance. He remembered the fierce joy at beating Malfoy to the snitch, and the bitterness every time Snape had ignored Malfoy’s acts to sabotage Harry’s potions, taking points from Gryffindor. He remembered Malfoy’s face in the bathroom, crying. Perhaps Malfoy was more complicated than he thought.

 

Images of Narcissa Malfoy washed through his mind, one with her face twisted, as if she smelt something rotten, another with her begging for information on her son, repaying that information by lying to Voldemort.

 

He was drenched in his memories of the Weasleys, of his craving for family, tempered by his awareness that he was welcome, but not truly needed. He remembered the time spent at the Burrow, and how glad he was when Mrs Weasley gave him tasks just like she did Ron and Ginny. His mind flowed through images of weeding the garden, not just because it gave him something to do with his hands, while his mind went blank, but also because it was something he could do for the Weasleys, who had done so much for him. He felt his motivations being evaluated, perhaps judged.

 

When the few interactions he shared with Mrs Tonks flowed through his mind, he realized he didn’t know her well. He had asked her if she wanted to be part of the Black family again because it was the right thing to do. She had lost people. She had lost all of her family, just like he had. But he could give a family back to her. He hoped she valued it as he did.

 

He was amazed at her strength, that she was here with him, instead of lost in grief for her daughter. He wondered how many times she had feared for Tonks’ life, in her time as an Auror. How did she do it? In her position he’d be raging. He remembered how he had been when Sirius died. It still hurt, but he no longer needed to lash out at everyone for daring to have sympathy. He knew he should be feeling something about Remus, about Fred, about so many others, but it was as if his capacity to grieve had been numbed. There was just too much. He just had to keep moving. Remus needed a funeral, Tonks needed to be by his side, at least in memory. Teddy needed… What Teddy really needed, he would never have. He had lost his parents, and there wasn’t anything anyone could do about that. But Harry could make sure that Teddy never lacked for a family that cared for him.

 

He hadn’t noticed as torches started glowing on the walls while he was caught in his memories. When the flow of images subsided, he found he had closed his eyes and opened them, wondering how he could have let himself close them in an unfamiliar place. The dim light revealed a small room. There was no door, no window.

 

He looked around the room. The entire room, the walls, the floor, was made of stone. On one side, a stone chair was carved into a pillar. On another, a shallow stone basin extended from the wall. The bottom of it was stained dark. Above that was the glyph from Sirius’ will.

 

He reached over to trace his fingers along the shape of the glyph, wondering what Mrs Tonks had meant about studying its meanings. After he did so, he realized how incredibly stupid it was to touch it. The percentage of things at 12 Grimmauld Place that had been booby trapped, cursed, or otherwise made dangerous had been rather high. He could not imagine who would want to live like that. But if Mrs Tonks was right, he was in the very core of the Black Family. It was either safer because of that, or infinitely more dangerous. When nothing seemed to happen to him, he reached out to touch it again. He could feel the curves of it, the edge where the carving came to a peak, the bumps and valleys. It was about the size of his hand, such that he could lay his hand over it and completely cover it, but just. It felt like stone, it looked like stone, but there was something about it that felt alive. Unless he was imagining it.

 

He sat in the stone chair. It was surprisingly comfortable, shaped to him, but not in such a way that he’d fall asleep. If he sat against it, his back remained erect, and his eyes naturally turned toward the glyph. The room seemed smaller than it had when he first saw it. He could see the inside of the basin. The light above the glyph and basin flared higher, and he could see the flecks of brown that had accumulated in the bottom, and the brown stain that rose about a quarter of the way up the shallow bowl.

 

It became real to him why McGonagall had been so upset. He shivered as his mind flashed back to the cemetery after the last task of the Triwizard Tournament. The last time his blood had been used in a ritual, it had not turned out well for him. Or for Cedric. Blood magic was dark magic. The memory of that night pulsed in his mind, the high thin sound of Voldemort’s voice, Cedric dropping in a flash of green light, the rough stone of the grave marker they had bound him to scraping against his back as Wormtail sliced his arm open. That was blood magic.

 

Remus’ memorial could be somewhere else, Harry thought frantically. Tonks had never liked the Black Mausoleum—Mrs Tonks had confirmed it. Only… Andromeda Tonks had been cast out. She was alive, and deserved her heritage. Teddy deserved to know all of his past. _Sirius would not choose anything that would harm him._

 

He took his wand, held his left hand over the basin, struggling to keep it from shaking. He took a deep breath, and another, until his wand was still as well. Carefully casting a cutting charm against the palm of his hand, he squeezed a few drops into the basin. He counted them: one, two, three...

 

When he reached nine, the glyph flared, and Harry felt as if he had been struck by lightning.

 

He could feel a current running through him, connected to the glyph, connecting outwards. Each time the current completed a link to something, there was a responding current, a sense of satisfaction, of wholeness. Parts of him were reaching, reaching, looking for an answer that never came. His veins, his nerves, all burned with an aliveness he had never experienced before.

 

Spots flashed in his vision, to be replaced by an image. It looked a little like the tapestry of the Black family tree, only there were no names, just flashes of light, patterns of energy. There were holes in the fabric, and he could see tendrils of energy reaching into the holes, writhing, searching. Crude stitching had been sewn around the holes, blocking some of the tendrils, but others got through.

 

It hurt. It felt as if he was draining away into the holes. He pulled back, and the pain diminished, but there was still the yearning to complete the fabric.

 

Knowledge, images flashed by too fast to comprehend. He felt surrounded by people, some familiar, some who felt as if they should be. He felt anchored, connected to a past so old it was as if he was rooted in living stone.

 

And suddenly, something changed, like a lock shot home, like catching a snitch. It felt like when he had successfully cast a fully formed Patronus the first time, when all the elements came together. A final burst of magic shot through him like electricity, and then it was over. Harry reeled. He realized he had come to his feet when the magic coursed through him, but his legs would no longer support him, and he collapsed back into the stone chair. The room was fully lit, and where there had been plain stone walls, Harry could see lines of energy forming patterns on the stone. As he rested, they dimmed, darkened.

 

What had happened to Andromeda? Mrs Tonks, he corrected himself, although an echo inside him called her cousin. Andromeda Black Tonks. She was part of his family. It finally felt real. With that thought, one of the rips inside him began to knit itself back together, and he felt just a little more complete.

 

* * *

 

 

The room suddenly got brighter, as a door that had not been there swung open. The light hurt his eyes. Andr—Mrs Tonks’ silhouette, glowing around the edges from the light behind her, resolved into her face and form as she entered the dimly lit room.

 

“How do you feel, Harry?”

 

After all that had happened, he expected to feel awful. He took stock. He didn’t hurt. Not physically, at least. “Fine. Only—full. Top-heavy. He stood up, and wobbled a moment, before the sense of being connected re-established. He belonged here. He could feel—he reached out across the connections, feeling the land around him, and sparks—he sat down again.

 

“Careful. Give yourself time to adjust.”

 

“I feel—larger. Or smaller. Like I’m part of something.”

 

Mrs Tonks’ face took on a wistful expression for just a moment, so quick he might have missed it.

 

“That’s what you were talking about, isn’t it? It’s the Black magical heritage.”

 

She nodded. “I think that’s all for today. Give yourself time.”

 

“But, the estate. The funeral.”

 

She joined Harry in the room. “I can take care of all of that, Harry. Your Remus Lupin will be remembered. Nymphadora will get what she needs to come home.” Harry’s eyes were on hers when she spoke. He saw it then. A moment of desolation. She had lost her daughter. She was doing all of this, planning funerals, helping Harry. He didn’t know how she kept going. But she took a deep breath and patted him on the shoulder.

 

She smiled, gently. “It will all work out. It will be easier for me, however, if you accept me back into the family now, and delegate me to work on your behalf, for what needs to be done.”

 

“What do—” Even as he began to form the words, he knew. He felt the hole where Andromeda Black should be. It was already mostly repaired. He reached through it. He could feel her, almost see her in flickering lights. “I need…”

 

“One drop each.” She took the same knife that she had used before, and nicked her palm, allowing one drop into the basin. The flickers that he recognized as Andromeda Black became clearer. He reached. She cleaned the knife and handed it to him. A small cut, a single drop, and with a flash, the hole in his mind was smooth cloth. She was part of the fabric.

 

Harry realized he had closed his eyes, and reopened them. The expression on Andromeda Black Tonks’ face was something he would remember for a long time.

 

* * *

 

 

As Harry followed Andromeda Tonks out of the Black mansion, she pointed out the huge old mausoleum. Harry distantly nodded his agreement that Tonks would not want to be interred there. It was difficult to pay attention to her words, or her hand as she gracefully indicated each feature of the estate that they passed. The vines cried to be pruned, and the garden wanted to be weeded, and there was an echo in the back of his mind droning on with flickers of parchment filled with numbers. The wards were weak in spots, and he found himself turning toward one of the weakened spots. Just a little of his magic, just link to the ward and send a little of his magic to shore up--

 

“Harry? Harry!” Andromeda Tonks called from further away than she should be. How’d she get way over there?   “I should have realized. Harry, come here.” Her voice was soft and calm, as if she were calling a skittish kitten. She reached for him. It was okay, she was part of him, so it was okay. He let her take his hand and pull him toward a corner of the house, where the black crest had been carved in bas relief. “Harry, I want you to look at the crest.” It was a pretty crest. It was his. He felt a sudden burst of warmth shining through him. He turned to smile at Andromeda. “No, Harry, keep your eyes on the crest. Feel how strong it is. Feel how old it is, how deep it reaches into the past.”

 

She was right. It was strong. The Black family was old.

 

“Now, Harry, I want you to remember your parents. What are their names?”

 

“James and Lily Potter.”

 

“Can you picture them?”

 

Their images, as he had seen them in the Mirror of Erised, as he had seen them as they walked with him into the forest, became clearer in his mind. And suddenly, he was alone in his mind. He was Harry Potter. He looked at Mrs Tonks, aghast.

 

“I’d forgotten about that. I deeply apologize, Harry.”

 

“What was that?”

 

“When you connect to the Black family magics, the needs of the family can become overwhelming. If your will isn’t strong enough, you can start to live for the needs of the family, instead of your own desires. Each of us had to establish our own will at some point while we were growing up. Before that point, our magic is not mature enough to connect with the family magics that strongly, but as our magic strengthens, so does our will. It usually happens toward the end of our time at Hogwarts that we establish ourselves as adults. That is why the age of adulthood in the magical world is at seventeen. That is when we have enough will to choose our own way, and not abide by either the will of another individual or another family.”

 

“I can think of several people that did not have the will to stand up for what was important. People who didn’t stand up to Voldemort, for example.”

 

“Were any of them Blacks?”

 

Harry thought. Sirius went against his own family to side with the light. Regulus resisted Voldemort even after being marked. Bella... Bella was just crazy, but she never wavered in that insanity.

 

“We learn to develop our own strength of mind early, as the Black family magic is one of the strongest of all of the families.”

 

“What would you have done if my will had not been strong enough?”

 

Andromeda’s sudden trill of laughter completely surprised Harry. “Harry, think of what you’ve done. Think of who you’ve fought. Do you think I had any reason to doubt your will? You were merely taken off guard. It’s been so long since I had to fight the will of the family, I did not think to warn you. I will endeavour to do better by you.”

 

Harry gave a lopsided grin in answer.

 

“We need to see the new mausoleum before we leave, if you are ready. Are you back in your head?”

 

Harry nodded. It almost sounded like he would need Occlumency just to keep his own mind. “Will this happen every time I come here?”

 

“No. As Head of the Family, you will always know what the family and the estate needs, but once you get used to it, and learn how to differentiate it from your own will and desire, it will merely be additional information for you to use. The Family should take your direction, not the other way around.”

 

“Oh.” Harry wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that any better. Family was about belonging, not controlling.

 

Andromeda must have seen the look on his face, because she added, “How that manifests will be based on your beliefs, Harry. I would not have asked to re-join the family if I didn’t trust you. I knew what it meant, even if you did not.”

 

Harry was not sure he wanted such trust. He did not think he had earned it, and unearned trust led to expectations that he would betray unaware. But Andromeda Tonks did not remind him of the readers of the _Daily Prophet_. Her trust came from her own strength. He would... accept it. For now.

 

“So, there is the small Mausoleum. It was built by my Great Aunt Callidora, who married a Longbottom. When he died, her children were already out of the house, and she became estranged from her son. She decided to come back to the estate to live, but having lived at the Longbottoms, she could not bear the thought of the old Mausoleum, so here we are.

 

The building was beautiful. It was carved with vines on the outside. It was a bit overgrown, but once there had been a garden surrounding it. The flowers had all gone wild, and the new spring growth came through a mat of dead leaves and old stems. That could be fixed.

 

The inside was beautiful, full of sun and colour. “I think Tonks would be happy here. I hope Remus...”

 

“I got to know Remus quite well over the past year. He would go where Nymphadora is.”

 

Harry remembered the fight they had had, the last time he had seen Remus at Grimmauld Place. He wished...

 

“Remus fought to do what was right for Nymphadora, even when it wasn’t what she wanted or needed. At the end, he was by her side. I can’t imagine that he would not find a way to continue to be so.”

 

Harry nodded.

 

“So, if you agree, I will act in your stead, arranging the funeral and arranging for the Mausoleum to be put to rights?”

 

“Mrs Tonks, I couldn’t ask you to do—”

 

“Which is why I am offering. It needs to be done. We have both seen the death of our loved ones. I have done this before, out of necessity. I can do it again.”

 

Harry nodded.

 

“I’ll owl you with any questions or requests. Tomorrow or the next day. Wait—is there something special you want on Remus’ memorial plaque?” Harry thought about it, but felt too overwhelmed to come up with anything. He promised to think about it that night, and send her the information the next morning.

 

She nodded. “In the meantime, Harry, go and rest your mind.”

 

When they got outside of the wards, she Apparated them both back to Hogsmeade.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS:
> 
> Again and still: thanks to ivyingarden for all the help making this a better fic! She patiently helps me brainstorm (with some great ideas to throw into the cauldron), is fabulous with canon, has a knack for language, and keeps at me to "write write write!" In chapter 10 and this chapter she went above and beyond, and role-played / helped write the dialogue between Andromeda and Harry.
> 
> Also, thanks to rosskpr , for beta work that is both meticulous and enthusiastic. She helped me catch several canon errors in addition to watching my grammar and asking plot flow questions, and her encouragement keeps me writing!
> 
> Any errors after the two of them have combed through the work are from the author not paying attention!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter, his friends, enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to J.K. Rowling. I play here.
> 
> FINAL NOTE: As always, reviews and critiques keep the creativity flowing! Let me know what you think!


	12. Too Much

 

_May 5, 1998_

 

 

The trip back to Hogwarts was uneventful. Harry could not believe how much the day had encompassed. It had felt like days of activity, but it had all happened in just over five hours: visiting Mrs Tonks, going to Grimmauld Place, returning to Hogwarts to talk with Dumbledore’s portrait and get the will, then going to the Black estate and somehow being accepted as head of the Black family, which Harry still had trouble coming to terms with, despite the thrum of connection that rooted him. Harry had returned way too late for lunch and too early for dinner. He changed out of his borrowed “visiting robes” and back into jeans and a t-shirt he had brought from the Weasley hand-me-down closet, then begged some food from the house elves in the Hogwarts kitchen.

 

He needed to think, and was too restless just to sit. The energy that had coursed through him at the Black family Heartroom had receded somewhat, but still made him too restless to do nothing. He returned to his work crew, asking for some work to keep his hands, or his wand, busy. They set him to sorting rock.

 

Two hours later, he was sweaty from the sun shining through the west-facing break in the wall, his back was sore from holding his arm just so for the wand movements necessary to shift the large stone blocks, and he thought he might be just a bit sunburnt, despite the fact he was working inside. He was no closer to sorting through his thoughts, but halfway through the pile of rock.

 

“Harry!”

 

Harry looked up to see Ginny standing in the doorway, her bright coppery hair glinting in the late afternoon sun.

 

“Gin! What are you doing here?”

 

“McGonagall told me how to find you. I had to ask _Filch!_ Erm... can you take a break?”

 

Harry nodded. He flicked his wand several times, moving the fragments of stone blocks out of the path that had been cleared through the room.

 

“Can we go somewhere? Down by the lake?”

 

“Sure, Ginny.”

 

After he let the witch in charge of his crew know he was taking a break, he and Ginny walked in silence down to the lake. The afternoon had warmed, especially for spring, but the breezes felt nice after being inside four walls, even if one of the four had been open to the outside.

 

They reached a bit of grass that was not torn up from the battle, near the lake. Looking out toward the lake, if he was careful not to see the Quidditch pitch, the shattered-glass greenhouses, or the castle itself, or anywhere with torn turf, fallen stone, curse scars on the walls, ground, and trees… if he just looked out toward the lake, he could imagine that it had all never happened. He sat quietly, letting Hogwarts soak into him as he waited for Ginny to say something.

 

Ginny took a deep breath. Harry could hear the air of it as it moved.

 

“I need to talk with you about last year.”

 

Harry tensed. He had hoped this argument was over. It was moot. He had left her behind, for her own safety. For his own peace of mind.

 

“Ginny, I—” he started, but she interrupted.

 

“When you left, and we kind of broke up, we were both thinking it would only be until it was safe again.”

 

A strange wriggle started in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t tell if it was excitement, fear, or something else entirely. _It was safe now. They could get back together._ Harry found himself wishing they were having this conversation in a few weeks. He wasn’t ready. He wanted her back. He had thought of her while on their search, watching her dot on the Marauder’s Map, imagining her playing Quidditch, studying, having a normal life at Hogwarts.

 

When the battle had come, his head was just too full to deal with anything else. Now the battle was over. But nothing felt the same. He had died, willingly, and he still hadn’t come to any conclusions about that. He did not know where he fit. Especially now, with the remnants of the Black family connections hovering just out of sight in his mind.

 

There were Family magics that belonged to the Blacks, that now belonged to him. That thought was beyond comprehension. Sorting rock had let it fade into the background, along with all the others that kept plaguing him. He had died! How could he become part of the world again? How could he hope to experience something as real as the grief he knew he should feel for those who had fallen? How could he be what Andromeda Tonks seemed to expect him to be?

 

His head was still too full. He was not ready to think about Ginny, or leaving her, or coming back. He wanted her back… just… not yet.

 

“Last year was hard,” Ginny interrupted his thoughts. “You don’t know how bad it was here. The Carrows were casting curses on us, in classes, in detention, sometimes other times as well. They had students learn dark curses by casting them on each other. The Slytherins would cast curses on other students as punishment for wrong thinking. Dark curses. Unforgivables.”

 

Harry couldn’t think of what to say.

 

“You left on your adventures, left me behind to be _safe_. Did you think we were _safe_ here? The Carrion Bitch cast the Cruciatus _eighteen times_ one morning in the great hall! I counted, wondering when she’d aim one at me. She did target Neville. Three times.”

 

Suddenly, Harry was completely present. “What? Didn’t anyone stop her?”

 

“I saw Sprout holding tightly to McGonagall’s wand hand. McGonagall looked fit to kill someone. Finally Snape came in. The bastard asked if she was done, as the screams were disturbing his appetite.”

 

Harry swallowed. He still didn’t know what to think about Snape. That was too complicated to deal with right now.

 

“Between the Carrows, Snape, and the junior Death Eaters, we were surrounded. And you weren’t here to fix it, like you always had been.”

 

“Ginny, there were things we had to do! If we hadn’t, Voldemort would still be alive!”

 

“I _know_ that Harry! I need to tell you what it was like _here_.”

 

“Why? So I can feel worse that I wasn’t here to protect you?”

 

“Harry, stop. This isn’t _about_ you. No one could have fixed it. We just needed to get through it. We had no hero, we just had each other. So we got to be the heroes ourselves. That’s what I was trying to say. I need you to understand what was going on, because there is something I have to tell you. But it won’t make sense unless you understand.”

 

“I understand bad times. There were bad times for us, too, Ginny.”

 

“I’m sure there were, Harry. But I don’t know, because I wasn’t there. You wouldn’t let me be there. And so I was here. When things got really bad, Neville got Dumbledore’s Army back together. We fought back.”

 

“Ginny, that was dangerous!”

 

“Of course it was dangerous. But it would have been even more dangerous to sit back and do nothing. Not physically, perhaps, although I doubt they would have been satisfied with mere compliance. They called my family Blood Traitors, Harry. Half-bloods, known Blood Traitors, we were targeted. Our only way to survive was to fight back. To reclaim our own truths. Like you did, with Umbridge.”

 

“Umbridge wasn’t a Death Eater!”

 

“Are you sure about that? The way she acted, she might as well have been working for You-Know-Who. The Carrows were like her, only unrestrained. And crazy. And the other teachers… Voldemort had the Ministry. He had the Hogwarts Board of Governors. We had all seen what happened to those who fought back. I could tell how frustrated McGonagall was, and Professor Sprout. Flitwick seemed even smaller than usual, like he wanted to be invisible. It’s surprising they let him continue to teach, what with the rumours of his non-human blood. Other of mixed-race were being killed, or sent away.

 

“It was horrible, Harry. We were always looking over our shoulders, not knowing who would report us for some infraction, real or not. Detentions weren’t writing lines, or cleaning cauldrons. If you got detention with one of the Carrows, you got cursed. Or whipped. Or whatever they felt like that day. The other teachers were supposed to send their detentions to the Carrows, not that they always did. McGonagall got caught once giving her own detention, and the Carrows … gave a demonstration. In the Great Hall. Five students ended up in the hospital wing. There’s a flagellation curse, you see. Madame Pomfrey had to use up an entire year’s supply of Skin Regrowth Potion. They made McGonagall watch. Instructing her, they said, on the proper method of discipline to be used. They offered her the chance to use the curse on a student, see, and she refused. So they got five students instead, and bound them, and cursed them, over and over. We all knew it wasn’t the students they were really punishing.

 

“So we figured, if we were getting detentions anyway, simply for our last names or our families, we’d do something worthy of detention. We got together in the Room of Requirement and practiced Defence, just in case you’d need us. We had to hide what we were doing, so we pranked the teachers to distract them.”

 

“You _what?”_

 

“Neville had us writing graffiti: ‘Dumbledore’s Army, Still Recruiting’ and ‘We will outlast you.’ Luna had this habit of saying the most outlandish things, and getting away with it, because she sounded so … so Luna. She could insult the professors in that distant way of hers, and make it sound like she was saying the sky was green. But then her father published one thing too many in the Quibbler and she disappeared at Christmas.

 

“It was awful. But the thing was, Harry, we were _there_ for each other. Luna’s dad sent her potions ingredients tucked in between treats when he sent care packages, and Padma and I brewed healing potions. Whatever we could learn: bruise balm, nerve restorative potion, Skele-Grow, we brewed as many of them as we could. Sometimes students were forbidden from going to see Madame Pomfrey. The pain was supposed to be part of the lesson. She’d ‘accidentally’ leave her satchel full of potions in a common room, after seeing to a student. She’d talk about what she _would_ do for a student with a particular ailment. And then a few of the students had to go into hiding, so we used the Room of Requirement for that too, and snuck in food for them.”

 

“Sounds pretty bad.” Harry thought about all they had been through. He remembered what Neville had looked like and tried to imagine Ginny like that, then decided he didn’t _want_ to see her like that, even in his imagination.

 

“The thing is, Harry, when things get that bad, you kind of have to rely on each other. Looking after each other, we all got really close. Luna, Neville, and I, we were kind of the leaders... and...” Ginny took a deep breath, looking out over the lake instead of at Harry. “Neville and I got close, Harry.”

 

It took a moment for that to make sense.

 

“We relied on each other. We healed each other. We were strong for each other.”

 

“You could rely on _me_ , Ginny. You could _always_ rely on me.”

 

“But Neville relied on me, too. He let _me_ be there for _him_. _I_ got to be the hero sometimes. We helped each other. Like you, and Ron, and Hermione help each other. Maybe even more so.

 

He couldn’t think of anything to say. Harry just looked at her, her bright shining, coppery hair, the light freckles on her face. The way her lips curved when she smiled. Or, as now, the intense look in her eyes, as she willed him to understand. Oh, he understood. He just wished he didn’t.

 

He had started to dare to hope for the future. Now that he had one. He could imagine a family with her. Not right away. He was too mixed up to do anything right away. But Ginny had said she’d wait. The Weasleys had always felt a bit like family, and ... Ron would have been his brother for real.

 

Ginny broke the silence. “Harry, you will always be a hero to me. You saved me. I will always love you for that, and for all that you are. But Neville let me save _him_. I didn’t realise how much I needed that until it happened.”

 

She stared at the horizon, where the sun was nearing the tops of the trees. “Are you okay, Harry? I mean... are you okay?”

 

“I dunno.”

 

“I just wanted to tell you before tomorrow. At the funeral. Neville’ll be there, and... I didn’t want to hide it from you. I love you, and I never want to lie to you.”

 

“Then why did you?” Harry knew his voice was harsh, and he didn’t know why he was asking it that way. There was a stabbing pain in his stomach, and it felt like he was going to throw up. “Why did you say you’d wait? And why didn’t you tell me when I was at the Burrow?”

 

“I tried to. But you looked so tired. And with George there, looking so empty... I just couldn’t. Harry, I’m so sorry.”

 

Harry stared at the water. It reflected the sky, only darker. The oranges building on the horizon looked like fire, turning the western edge of the water red and gold. Ginny sniffed. He turned to see her crying. He wanted to hold her, to make it better. Only it wouldn’t be better. “I—I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

He got up and walked toward the Quidditch pitch. The deep furrows damaging the grass made him feel like he belonged. He didn’t turn to see what Ginny was doing. He couldn’t stand to see the face he had come to love crying because she didn’t love him enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do not like character bashing. This is how I could imagine an ending for Harry and Ginny. I wanted something where both were in the right, and both were in the wrong. I never thought Ginny was right for Harry, but their relationship was hugely unresolved at the end of the last chapter of Deathly Hallows (ignoring the epilogue.) This was a conversation that needed to happen, for both of them.
> 
> Yes, this is a short chapter. The next chapter will be rather large.
> 
> Reviews are welcome and encouraged, as they encourage the author.
> 
> Thanks:
> 
> As always: thanks to my betas for this chapter, ivyingarden and rosskpr. Their help made these chapters better, between brainstorming, catching errors in grammar and canon, reviewing plot flow, and supplying encouragement to "write-write-write". Any errors after the two of them have combed through the work are from the author not paying attention!
> 
> Disclaimer: 
> 
> Harry Potter, his friends, his enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to JK Rowling. I play here.


	13. A Cause and a Cure

 

**Medicine is Only Magic - Poppy Pomfrey**

_May 6, 1998_

 

By the end of the next day, three more volunteers had been brought to the hospital wing with the same symptoms as Angus Thelbren.  Poppy had searched her library for illnesses or curses with those symptoms, and quizzed the Mediwizards and Mediwitches on loan from St Mungo’s, but they were all as perplexed as she was.

 

She checked what spells those affected had been using, where they had been working, who they had been working with, and even what they had had to eat that day, but could find no pattern. 

 

Mr Thelbren’s sores had continued to spread, and the other patients showed similar progression, despite her best efforts to slow their body processes.  Poppy had consulted by fire call with a specialized Mediwitch at St Mungo’s that morning; the Mediwitch had referred her to a specialized diagnostic charm that tracked a patient’s magical core over time.  It revealed that the dark shadows infecting his magic were likewise spreading.

 

Without a solid diagnosis, and contagion a real possibility, she had cleared one ward, despite the space limitations under which she worked, and moved all four patients to that ward, incanting a glowing contagion warning onto the door.  With no guide as to what to do, she was forced to go back to basics. 

 

She gathered together a strong pain relieving potion and an anti-nausea potion that would not interact with each other, and set them on the bedside table. If she could get his pain and nausea under control, she could begin to address the other, more severe issues.  Before starting her tests, she cast a neutral shield between Mr Thelbren’s bed and the others in the ward, and then ran a few diagnostics on the man.  Mr Thelbren’s sleeping body had cooled due to the slowed body processes, yet even that had not prevented the taint to his magic from starting to affect his organs.  She had to act soon or it would be too late for him.  Carefully, she unwove the spell that had slowed them, bringing him out of the artificially induced sleep.

 

He woke with a cry of pain and a burst of magic which rattled the windows and knocked one painting off the wall.  It was not the guardian portrait, thankfully, just a seascape which emitted a calming sound of surf (now slightly distorted).  When she was fairly certain the burst would not continue, Poppy held his head and dosed him with the nausea inhibitor first, and then the pain potion when it looked like it would stay down.

 

The lesion on his cheek had blossomed into a magenta-stained bruise in just that short time.  Dark lines were spreading out from the bruise, like roots seeking soil.  Poppy cast a spell to retard the spread of toxins, but the dark lines only seemed to grow faster.

                                                                                                                        

Looking at her with pleading eyes, Mr Thelbren whispered, “Help me.”

 

Poppy rewove the spells that slowed her patient’s disease, watching as he fell back under its effects, unconscious once again.  She didn’t like feeling helpless.  She had experienced that too often over the past year, and never wanted to feel it again.

 

She cleaned up from her attempt, and went to note the results in her files. 

 

A knock at the open door interrupted her before she had made it halfway through the pile of notes on her desk.

 

“Poppy?  Do you have a minute?”  Minerva paused in the doorway, giving the Mediwitch the chance to invite her in or send her off.

 

She sighed, marked her progress on the parchment, and folded the protective cover over her notes.  “How can I help, Minerva?”  Even her voice was weary.

 

“I only wished to check how those volunteers are doing.”

 

"Minerva, I've never seen anything like it. It's like they've been cursed, but none of them were in the battle. It looks like dark magic, but I'm not enough of an expert in the field to know how to cure it.  Hogwarts was always protected from the worst of it.  Until this past year, that is. During which I was not allowed to _do my job!_ "  She emphasized the last three words with staccato precision.

 

"I know you did your best, given the circumstances. And don’t think I missed the potions you left in the common rooms... you are not a forgetful person. You did everything you could.” Minerva sighed, then gave a firm shake of her head. “That time is over, thanks to Mr Potter.”  She said briskly.  “Have you contacted St Mungo's?"

 

"Of course. They say it's not a curse known to them. I can't think who else to ask."

 

“Albus had an extensive library.  If you like, you could check in there to see if there is anything.”

 

* * *

 

**The Suffering of Lucius Malfoy**

_May 7, 1998_

 

 Draco woke to the sound of his father dying.

 

Lucius’ breathing sounded like death rattling in his lungs, and he coughed so hard, that at the end of each paroxysm, it was as if the last bit of air was expelled, so that Draco strained to hear if he would draw breath again.  When he finally gasped his next breath, the air in his lungs wheezed and gurgled.

 

Draco got up and padded over to his parents’ curtain-enclosed bed.  It would be rude just to draw the curtains aside, so he paused as he touched the palm of his hand to the bland fabric.  “Mother?” he called softly, so as not to wake her if she were asleep, although he doubted there would be much chance of that.

 

The curtains shifted to reveal his mother sitting with his father’s head in her lap.  His face was red and blotchy, and he convulsed with another bout of coughing.  He peered blearily at Draco and sneezed.

 

Draco was horrified.  His father was clearly dying, and he had _snot_ running out of his nose.  He looked around – they had not been provided with clothes, so were left with what they were wearing _that_ day.  They slept in their underrobes, so as to keep their robes as smart as possible, and Draco could not remember what he had done with his handkerchief.  Perhaps it was in his godfather’s rooms.

 

With a cringe, he went into the water closet and found some toilet paper.  Shivering at the thought, he brought it to his mother, who gave it to his father without comment.  The loud honking noise was something he never expected to hear from the man whose elegance he had so admired growing up.  Such symptoms could be alleviated much more discretely – if they only had their wands!

 

His mother adjusted her husband’s head so she could stand, and went to open the wardrobe.   “We need to get him to the Hospital Wing.  Would you get the guard’s attention?”  Her calm both infuriated him and reassured him.  He did not feel calm, but, remembering how the guard had ignored him regarding his messages earlier, decided that could be put to use.  It was plebeian, what he planned, but this was an emergency.

 

“Yes,” he told her.  His mother closed the door behind him.  He could make a commotion without disturbing his father more than was necessary.  He pounded on the hallway door.  They’d pay attention to him if he had to annoy them for the rest of the day.

 

“We need help here!”  _You contemptible morons,_ he thought.  “My father is ill.  He needs to go to the Hospital wing!”  He pounded harder.  Wait!  Hadn’t Potter stolen one of their house elves? Dobbin or something?  His father had ranted about the theft.  If Potter was here, the elf might be.  And Potter was just the type to be hanging around the school, basking in the adulation after the battle.  Dobby!  “Dobby!”  he shouted.  No one came.  “Stupid house elf.” 

 

He was about to renew his pounding, when the door opened. 

 

“What do you want?”  Irritation was clear in the Auror’s voice, but he kept his wand trained on Draco.  He looked as if he wanted to use it.  “This isn’t a hotel to cater to your whims, _Death Eater_.”

 

Draco swallowed his retort.  He took a breath.  “It’s my father.  He’s ill.   He could be dying!”

 

The Auror shrugged.  Draco could just see in the Auror’s face what he was thinking.   _One less for Azkaban._

 

“He hasn’t been convicted of anything.”  Draco said with a quiet intensity, although he feared that the upcoming trial would change the truth of that statement.   For now, Draco needed every advantage to get his father what he needed.  He feared that they would prefer his father die for lack of medical attention.  “He didn’t even have his _wand_ in the battle.”   Lucius interrupted Draco with a paroxysm of coughing that could be heard, even through the door.  It sounded like he couldn’t breathe at all.  “Help him!”  As the guard was about to close the door and turn away, Draco changed tactics.  “He can’t very well go to his trial like that!”

 

The guard paused for a moment.

 

“Don’t you want him to be aware, when he goes to trial?”  Draco swallowed.  His voice was bitter as he continued, “Don’t you want him to be fully aware of his humiliation?  Don’t you want to see it?  A Malfoy, to be tried like a common criminal?”

 

“That’s what he _is_!” the Auror hissed.  “That’s what you _all_ are!  Oh, never fear, he’ll get his medical help.  _We_ don’t believe in torture, or withholding medical treatment.  Not like you people did to my cousin, just because she was shopping in a shop owned by someone you people didn’t approve of.  How would _she_ have known?  I can’t wait to see every one of you finally get what’s coming to you!” 

 

The guard was shouting by the end, and another Auror ran up to check on the disturbance.   At her inquiry, the guard muttered something that sounded insulting, but seemed to have gotten the message across.  Either that, or Lucius’ well-timed bout of coughing just as his mother, now fully dressed, opened the bedroom door, made it clear to even the dimmest of Aurors that help was needed.  The cough ended in a disturbing sounding gurgling choke.  Now that his mother was in the room, Draco could turn his back on the Aurors to go check on his father, whose face was so flushed he looked like an angry Weasley.  That alone was clear evidence his father had been cursed, or the world was about to end.  Perhaps it was.  At his father’s gesture, Draco handed him a cup of water.  Hot tea would have been better, Draco thought, but the breakfast tea was all gone.

 

The new Auror took several moments to cast a battery of detection spells on both rooms, and then followed Draco into the bedroom.  No Malfoy should be seen like that, but at least his mother had pulled the blanket over him.  The Auror cast a few spells at Lucius.  Draco moved protectively toward his father, but his mother gave a miniscule shake of her head.  His father merely glared at the Auror, but didn’t say a word.  Draco suspected his father’s throat was too sore for him to speak without need.  He stepped aside so the Auror could do her scans.  Apparently they told the imbecile what ought to be plain at a glance:  his father needed _help!_   Lucius was flushed, and his eyes were watering, his hair was tangled and sweaty, and there was mucous dribbling from his nose _again_.  Draco was beginning to think a potion had been slipped in with the food, to humiliate them.  Perhaps it was a curse, just now manifesting. 

 

His father opened his eyes and croaked, “Draco.  Where’s Narcissa?  And what are you doing?”  He had to pause for breath every few words.  Draco’s eyes flicked up to his mother.  Lucius’ eyes followed his glance. 

 

“You need to go to the Hospital wing.”  Draco didn’t say anything else.  What else was there to say?  His father leaned back and reached an arm out toward Narcissa, who took it.

 

The Auror ignored all this, and reached for something from a pocket in his robes—a thick, heavy bracelet.  “He may need medical help, but I don’t trust any of you.”   He went to affix it to Lucius’ wrist, but Narcissa held firmly to his father’s hand. 

 

“May I see that?”  It wasn’t a question, despite the inflection.  She extended her free hand.  The Auror held her wand on Draco’s mother, but allowed her to examine the bracelet.  Draco thought he recognised it as one of the limiting cuffs used by the Aurors.  His father made sure he knew what the ministry could and could not do to him.   “You will need a second one.  I am going with him.”

 

“It is not—“

 

“Necessary?  Allowed?   I am his wife!”  Her cool glare dared the Auror to dispute her right.

 

“I am required to advise you that this bracelet has a strong stunner, which will be activated should you come into contact with a wand, or the bracelet’s controlling device.  It is also charmed to activate if you range more than thirty feet from the controlling device.”  The Auror spoke the words in the monotone of overuse.  She looked his mother directly in the eye, her face hard.  “I’m required to warn you, but I really wish you would try.  I’ve seen them work.  Stunners of this strength can damage the heart, is what I’ve heard.  You'll _really_ need the medical wing then."

 

His mother merely slid the bracelet onto her wrist with the same grace and care she would have taken had it been one of the priceless heirlooms in her jewellery coffer at the Malfoy estate.  Nothing broke his mother’s composure.  She was the epitome of what it meant to be pureblood. 

 

When she reached for the second bracelet, the Auror pulled it back.  “I will put it on him,” the Auror insisted.  Lucius glared at the Auror as she reached for his wrist.  Draco caught the smirk on his mother’s face.  His father might be sick, and he might be diminished by his experiences in the past two years, but he was no one’s doll, to be dressed.  With a glance from his mother, his father relented and extended his hand for the Auror to bind with the bracelet.   The effect was destroyed when his father broke into a new coughing spasm.  Draco was pleased to see the Auror had been splattered.  If a Malfoy must be subject to such humiliation, it was only fitting to share the experience.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Narcissa was not pleased by the way her husband’s needs were being disregarded. 

 

Not only had the Auror affixed one of the Ministry’s limiting bracelets to her husband’s wrist, but she followed up by casting _Incarcerous_ to bind his hands and ankles together with conjured ropes, and then, because he could not move on his own, levitated him off the bed with a _Mobilicorpus,_ and moved him out of the room with a overly energetic swish of her wand, flat on his back in the air, with his beautiful hair hanging down in uncombed tangles.  Narcissa quickly pulled the blanket off the bed and draped it over him.  She would grant him all the dignity she could, given the circumstances.   The Auror gestured another to join them, leaving the guard to ensure that Draco, without his wand, did not escape a warded door.  Apparently, two wanded Aurors were necessary to keep two wandless purebloods, one of whom was incapacitated with illness, under control.  If she weren’t so worried about Lucius, she would be smirking at the thought.  She moved to guide the floating body of her husband, as she did not trust the Auror to avoid the corners.  If Lucius had been well, he would have been livid.  Instead, he just looked miserable.

 

When they arrived in the hospital wing, Madame Pomfrey merely glanced at him briefly, and flicked her wand in a quick diagnostic, then indicated some uncomfortable looking wooden chairs off to the side.  “Wait over here.  I’ll be with you when I have time.”  She had turned to the Auror who had accompanied them.  “You will be able to wait?”  The Auror nodded, taking an alert stance that took in both the entrance and the two Malfoys, as if Narcissa’s given word, which they had demanded of her, were not assurance enough.  They did not seem to consider it relevant that she would not desert her husband when he was debilitated from illness.  In fact, they didn’t seem to consider it of moment that he was ill.

 

“My husband—“

 

“—is neither the most important person here, nor the most grievously ill.  He will wait his turn.”

 

Several other patients came in while they waited.  They were scanned, given potions, or directed to beds for further assistance.  Mediwizards and mediwitches scurried past several times, but paid them little attention.  Narcissa’s anger rose each time, but she held her peace, forcing herself to scan the area.  The white on white colour scheme only served to increase Narcissa’s agitation, as the white paint was tinted green, and the paint on the wooden chairs had a brown cast to it, and the bed linen were so white they made the rest drab by comparison.  You could always tell the quality of care one would receive by the ambiance.  Lucius had always donated generously to St Mungo’s, and the Malfoy family could be assured of a peaceful room, with calming, healing colours, and the best of healers. 

 

Finally, Madame Pomfrey came over with a potion. 

 

“What is it?  What is wrong with him?”

 

“He has a Muggle flu.  Perhaps he has been around too many Muggles in his... activities.”  Poppy commented, her voice cold.  “This draught is primarily non-magical plants, as the Muggle flu does not respond well to the magical variants.”

 

“My husband is ill with a _Muggle_ disease?”

 

“He was exposed, and susceptible.”

 

“He…“  Lucius began, and then coughed hoarsely.  “…he is here and can hear you.  Do your patient the courtesy of addressing him directly.”  Lucius leaned back after the effort of speaking. 

 

Madame Pomfrey turned to address her next comment to both of them. “Typically, wizards don’t get Muggle illnesses, as our magic makes us resistant.  I’m surprised to see you with it.  Have you been cursed or otherwise severely weakened?”  Lucius gave her an impatient look.   “I would not expect a wizard to catch this unless you had been without your wand for an extended period, and were then exposed, but as you were at your own manor, that seems unlikely.”  At Narcissa’s hand gesture, Madame Pomfrey paused.  “Unless…?”  The Mediwitch’s voice inflected upward in a question.

 

“Neither of us have wands at the moment.  My son had to borrow mine when he returned to Hogwarts after the Spring Holiday.  Lucius’ was likewise unavailable.” 

 

“That would account for it.  In the meantime, it is not life-threatening.  He will need to stay here long enough to determine his reaction to the potion, but then you may return to your rooms.  Drink.”  She addressed the last command directly to Lucius.

 

Lucius glared at the concoction in her hand, but after a moment reached out his hand to grasp it.  She let him take the flask, and he examined it a bit more.  “What’s in it?” He croaked.

 

“Echinacea, hyssop, liquorice, several other non-magical herbs.”

 

Lucius drank it warily.

 

They waited.

 

“Nothing’s happening.” Narcissa protested.

 

“It is a Muggle illness.  It takes time to heal.  As it doesn’t have magical components, it does not react well to a magical cure.  You will have to wait it out like a Muggle would.”

 

“How long?”  Narcissa pressed.

 

“Muggles do not heal as fast as we do.  They, however, have developed resistances to the illnesses they can contract.  We have never needed to develop Muggle forms of resistance.”

 

Lucius giggled.  “Muggle resistance!”  he croaked, his laugh turning into a cough.

 

Madame Pomfrey turned to Narcissa.  “As I was saying, because it is doubtful that your husband has any non-magical resistance to this flu, it may well take longer or be more severe.”

 

“Severe!  Severe Severus could, would…“  Lucius wheezed through a giggle.

 

Narcissa stared at her husband in concern.  “ _What_ did you give to him?”

 

“It appears that your husband is one of those wizards who has an allergy.  I will have to test—“

 

“Madame Pomfrey!  We have another one!”

 

“Excuse me. I will have to get back to you in a moment, Mrs Malfoy.  Keep an eye out for any further strange behaviours.”

 

“He is already behaving oddly.  Fix this!”

 

“I’m sorry, but this is an emergency.”  Poppy ran a scan over the new patient, who made a peculiar sound, then vomited at their feet.  The patient’s face and hands had broken out in lesions.   Lucius giggled again.

 

“Andre!  Take this gentleman to the quarantine ward.  I’ll be right there, just get him settled.”

 

“My  husband –“

 

“Your husband and his cronies did _this!”_   Suddenly, Madame Pomfrey turned on Lucius.  “All the death wasn’t enough?  You had to cause more misery?  What did you do?  What is _causing_ this?”  The mediwitch’s voice came out desperate and angry. 

 

Narcissa was about to protest that they had done nothing in the battle but look for their son, when Lucius giggled and sing-songed, “Dark Magic, Dark Magic leaves a mark.”  He broke into a fit of coughing at the end.

 

“I can tell it’s dark magic, you buffoon!  No one has identified the curse.  If you know—” she turned to Narcissa— “if either of you know what was done to cause this, you need to tell me!  I have fifteen cases already... that is the sixteenth!”

 

Lucius sneezed. 

 

“What are the symptoms?”  Narcissa asked.

 

“Vomiting.  Lesions – over the whole body.  Stasis only slows the spread of lesions, it does not halt them.  Fever.  There is a taint of dark magic in their magical field, but I don’t recognize the curse!  Everything I do only seems to accelerate the symptoms!”

 

Narcissa restrained her shock.  Lucius had no such compunction.  “Your own choices,” he chortled.  “Hit by your own curse!  Albus Dumbledore’s folly, striking from beyond the grave...”  

 

“Albus would do no such thing!”  Madame Pomfrey declared.

 

“You _all_ have!”  Lucius’ hoarse voice nevertheless sounded like a three year old with a secret.  “Every choice for the past two hundred years—” He broke into a fit of coughing again, trying to speak past the coughs.  “E-ver-y choice!  Now you see.  We were right.  We were right.”  He sing-songed the words.

 

“I don’t have time for this.”  Madame Pomfrey turned away to follow her new patient.

 

“I will tell you what my husband means.  But first you must see him into a bed, and make him comfortable.  And I will sit by him and tell you _exactly_ what he means.”  

 

“I must—” Madame Pomfrey gestured in the direction they had taken the man with lesions.

 

“Yes, yes, see to him.  But if you want my help, you will come back to assist my husband immediately afterward.  And you need my help if you want that man to live.”

 

Madame Pomfrey nodded and left without a further word.

 

Narcissa glanced at Lucius’ face.  Mucous dribbled down under his nose, and his eyes were wet from the coughing.  His face was blotchy.  She wished, for the twentieth time this morning, that she had her wand.  She turned to the Auror.  “He needs a handkerchief.”

 

The Auror gazed at her impassively.  She turned to scan the room.  There was a table in the corner with various supplies.  “Over there.  There is a pile of cloth on that table.  I need one.” 

 

“I’m must stand here and guard Mr Malfoy.  He won’t expire in the time it takes for the Mediwitch to return.” 

 

She knew at least six different spells that would ease his suffering, and make his face presentable, but without her wand, could do none of them.  She turned to the Auror, repressing her dismay at their vulnerability to their enemies.  She was Slytherin.  She would do what was necessary.  Rule 2.  “Could you at least do him the service of cleaning his face for him?”

 

The Auror smirked, but turned to cast _Scourgify_.  Narcissa shuddered.  It was much too vigorous a spell to use on the face.  She could already see his face reddening further in response.  She stroked a hand down her husband’s hair.

 

They waited.

 

Finally Madame Pomfrey returned and took them to a bed in a room with several others.  Some of them were occupied.  This was not St Mungo’s, she reminded herself, where their past donations secured them private rooms.  This was a school.  As much as she would have liked Draco to have private rooms were he to need care, there had been more important things to focus on: curriculum for example, and quality of teaching.  Lucius had insisted that the Hogwarts curriculum had significant flaws.  And now, she had proof.

 

As soon as Lucius was situated, with a dose of something to alleviate his congestion (but not his fever, which apparently was necessary for the Muggle healing process), and a sleeping draught to ease his suffering, Madame Pomfrey turned to her.  “That’s all I dare do, or it will interfere with the healing.  Now what do you know?”

 

Narcissa did not prevaricate, despite the opening left for her.  “When was the last time Hogwarts was cleansed?”  She decided to start with the easy question.

 

“The house elves clean it every day, of course.  Hogwarts is not unsanitary!”

 

“Not cleaned.  When was it last _cleansed_?  When did you last clear out the magic left behind?”

 

“What are you talking about?”  Madame Pomfrey sounded exasperated.

 

“Every spell we cast leaves a mark.  A bit of it is left behind.”

 

“It dissipates over time.  It doesn’t harm anything.”  Madame Pomfrey objected.

 

“How many spells are cast each day at Hogwarts?  There are what, three hundred students, in addition to the teaching staff?  The students practice magic daily.  How would it have time to dissipate?”

 

“What does this have to do with—“

 

“You really don’t know?”  Narcissa was beginning to get a feeling of foreboding.  No, it went beyond foreboding.  She had seen the lesions on that patient.

 

“If we knew—”

 

“So, students have been casting magic here, every year, every day.  And it has never been cleansed while you’ve worked here.  Hogwarts is so full of magic it may well have become sentient!”  Narcissa closed her eyes to compose herself.  “It is certainly animate.  I doubt the original builders intended the stairs to move, or the suits of armour to wander.  The population of ghosts at Hogwarts is appalling!  Do you suppose all of them died at Hogwarts?  They were attracted by the sheer intensity of the magic at Hogwarts, free for use, to ground them more into this world.  No wonder Hogwarts students are getting weaker.”

 

Madame Pomfrey bridled at that.  “They are not—“

 

“They are.  But that is not the point, at the moment.  Last year, Draco wrote home about what was being taught.  The Carrows brought dark magic back to the Hogwarts curriculum for the first time in over two hundred years.  Did Amycus Carrow ever teach the students how to clean up after themselves?”

 

“I do not follow the specific lesson plans of each instructor, except insofar as it may cause students to need my service.  The Professors usually alert me in advance so that I would have the supplies ready.  And, to be frank, I had enough to do, what with the Carrows and Snape cursing students left and right.  I have never seen teachers with such disregard for student welfare.”

 

“So, last year, dark magic was cast in a magically saturated environment.”

 

“Against the will of the _responsible_ members of the faculty and staff.”  Poppy bit the words out.

 

“And then, a few days ago, there was a major battle.  In which many wizards and witches were killed, including one who had used magic stronger and darker than most of us can even attempt!  And, to your knowledge, you still haven’t cleansed the castle?”

 

“What do you think the volunteers are doing?”  Madame Pomfrey asked.  Repairing the damage _your_ lot caused.”

 

“Certainly not cleansing the castle, or you would not have sixteen patients at risk of losing their magic, if not their lives.”  Narcissa’s voice was acerbic.  She took a breath.  The Auror at the door had his wand in hand, but was still pointing it downward.  This was not the time to antagonize them. 

 

She began again, speaking as if to a very slow first year.  “All magic leaves its mark.  Most spells, when cast, merely increase the level of magic in the ambience; what they leave behind is neutral.   Some magic leaves a … residue that can be beneficial.   It can be healing, or calm the emotions.  One of the indicators of Dark Magic is that the magical remains that it leaves behind are…dangerous.  It can be damaging to living creatures, and can warp the purpose of charmed items.  So it is necessary to cleanse the magic left behind.  Those of us who have not _forgotten_ proper wizarding traditions cleanse our homes several times a year.  Our children can do it!”

 

“So it doesn’t need a wand?”

 

“How would it help to add magic?  The purpose is to _release_ the magic, to return the place to its natural state.  Draco knows how.  Frankly, any Slytherin except perhaps a few would know this, and would have done it all his life.  Any pureblood who has not betrayed our traditions knows how to protect those of magical blood.”

 

“Just a moment.  I will be right back.”  Poppy excused herself, and a few moments later returned.  “The Headmistress will be joining us.  I believe she should hear this.  In the meantime, what do I do for the patients I already have?”

 

“If they have not shown lesions yet, it is simple.  A simple salt bath, with certain herbs added.  Then a cleansing potion.”

 

“All of them have lesions.  I have them under stasis.”

 

“That will only slow it down, and will accelerate their decay once stasis is removed.  You need to remove them from Hogwarts and then drain their magic.”

 

_“What?”_

 

“Magic speeds up the infection.  They need to be in an environment with _no_ magic.  Not Hogwarts, not Diagon Alley, not the Ministry, certainly not St Mungo’s.  No magical home.  They will need to be quarantined in a Muggle neighbourhood and left alone.  They will need to take a specific tincture that will drain their magic, and they will need to take this until their magic has completely left them. 

 

“No!  I cannot believe that!”

 

“Once their magic is completely gone, they can stop taking the tincture and return to Hogwarts, or St Mungo’s, and there is a chance their magic will return,” Narcissa continued relentlessly.  She repressed the shudder at the thought.  Such carelessness.  Such idiocy to ignore simple precautions, when the risk was so great.  And what was worse, she and her family were imprisoned here, where the residue from dark magic had never been cleansed.  

 

The Headmistress walked in.  “What do you need, Poppy?”

 

“You need to hear this.”

 

“What?”

 

“It may take a while to explain fully.”  Narcissa began.

 

The Headmistress sat in a nearby chair, and folded her hands in her lap.  “What do I need to hear?”

 

Narcissa repeated what she had told the mediwitch.

 

“So this cleansing will prevent further cases?”

 

“It will.”

 

“You say your son knows how to do this.  He has volunteered to help with the repair effort.  Do you believe he would be willing to be on a volunteer team to perform this cleansing?” the Headmistress asked.

 

Narcissa quailed inside at the thought of Draco exposed to such advanced taint, but reminded herself of his goals.  “I trust my son.  You will have to ask him if he is willing to accept the risk.  But if he is, I can tell you he is more than capable of cleansing Hogwarts.  With assistance.  It is best done in groups.”  She didn’t want to expose him to this.  The taint here had apparently already progressed much further than she would ever let it develop at home.  Although, considering the events of the last few months, her home was probably overdue for a cleansing as well.  It did not have the sheer levels of magic in the ambiance that Hogwarts did.  Malfoy Manor had no walking suits of armour, no moving staircases, and very few ghosts.  Still the effluence from the fight that happened a few months ago when they had prisoners escaping, and the wrath inflicted by the Dark Lord onto his own would certainly need to be cleansed, now that the Malfoy family would no longer need to play host to whichever Death Eaters the Dark Lord saw fit to impose upon them. 

 

Fortunately, a Dark Lord had not been vanquished on the premises.  So, Malfoy Manor and the surrounding grounds would need to be cleansed, if they were able to return home, but it would not be so badly tainted as would cause what she saw in that patient.  Narcissa both longed for the day they returned, and mourned, for it was doubtful that Lucius would return with them.

 

“What of those who have already been infected?”  McGonagall broke into her train of thought.

 

“I have already explained to Madame Pomfrey what is necessary—“

 

“And I will not believe that is the only way to help them!   To drain them of their magic!”

 

“ _What?”_   McGonagall turned sharply to look at her. 

 

“It is their magic that is infected.  The infection feeds on their magic.  You can do _nothing_ with magic that will not make it worse.”

 

“The stasis—“ Madame Pomfrey began.

 

“—only slows the progression of the illness, but will not stop it.  When the stasis is removed, the magic used to hold the stasis will only feed the infection.”

 

“What is this tincture you propose?”

 

Narcissa told her.

 

“But that is a poison!”

 

“Indeed.  Muggles discovered this poison, and used it to drain witches and wizards of their magic in the middle ages.  Some survived.  This is nothing to take lightly.  But it is the _only cure._ ”

 

“Do you have any proof of what you say?”

 

Narcissa repressed a sneer.  She had expected this.  “At the Manor.  There is a book.”

 

“I will send someone to fetch it.  Where—“

 

“They would not get past the gate.  Malfoy wards do not treat intruders kindly.  I will need to go.”

 

“And you will disappear.  No.”

 

“I would not leave my son and my husband to your care.  I doubt they would survive it.”  She didn’t want to leave Lucius just now, but... She considered, and could not believe what she was about to offer.  “You may send what Aurors you need to accompany me.”  She knew the risk.  They would have full access to the Manor once she let them in.  She knew they would use whatever they saw against her family.  But this was more than that.  This was a chance, possibly, to return Hogwarts to the old ways.  She had something they needed, and their need would open them to convincing.  She had the key to Draco’s future.

 

After a pause, McGonagall nodded.

 

* * *

 

 

  **Malfoy Manor – Narcissa**

_May 7, 1998_

 

Narcissa resisted the urge to twist the bracelet on her wrist.   Her captors felt it necessary not only to bind her with the cursed bracelet, but also to send along _three_ Aurors.  In a way it pleased her, that they felt such fear of her, one wandless witch.  Her power had never only been in her magic, but in the force of her will.  She was born of the old families, and had their assembled strength behind her. 

 

It amazed her that she was about to usher three Aurors, of her own will and without prior preparation, into Malfoy Manor.  She knew the lengths she was willing to go for her family.  It was as it should be, but she would never have believed that protecting her family would, at the same time, open them to such risk. 

 

The Dark Lord had used it as his base, on and off, for the past year.  Certainly, he had felt it his right to quarter his Death Eaters there. 

 

The state of the Manor cut at her heart.  She had chosen the decor of the Manor, elegance to intimidate, offset by small touches, almost invisible to outside eyes, to make it a home for her family.  She controlled the mood and desires of those guests who stayed there.  Did she put them at their ease, in the forest green bedroom?  Or perhaps she would make them aware of the honour of staying at the Manor, with any of a number of elegantly appointed bedrooms, accented in creams and gilt.  Of course, there were the accommodations in the dungeon, but those were Lucius’ purview. 

 

The Manor was her contribution to the Malfoy power.  As its hostess, she controlled the Ministers of Magic as much as her husband did with judicious applications of galleons and subtle warnings.  Then the Dark Lord came and destroyed what she had developed.  He had infested the Manor with the likes of Greyback and Pettigrew, neither of whom were pureblood, neither having had even the benefit of a polite upbringing, for which she might overlook the taint in their blood. In doing so, the Dark Lord had undermined one of the gifts the Malfoys offered him:  influence.   Without the ability to host Ministers and Department Heads at the Manor, they were left with crass exchanges of galleons and threats. 

 

It had devolved slowly, but with the presence of the Dark Lord a constant threat, she hadn’t dared let the criticism cross her mind.  Instead, she merely planned around it, making up for the disadvantages wherever she could, with a soft or sharp word, or a delicate potion in the wine.  Her choices were subtle: nothing that controlled a person, just minor suggestions that could be used to guide a person’s choices by one with the skill.

 

And now, the beautiful alabaster columns were smudged and splattered, the marble floors littered with their leavings.  The cellars were worse.   If the Aurors saw fit to examine those, it was doubtful that even her non-participation in the battle at Hogwarts would save herself or her son.  She cringed at the thought of the wine cellars, bottles opened and discarded, spilled over with blood and whatever else leaked out of those who provided the entertainment at one of Bella’s gatherings.  The fact that it was her own sister that was one of the worst of the lot disturbed her further. 

 

How had it all gone so wrong?  They were supposed to be protecting pure-blood values and traditions.  When had it been a pure-blood tradition to drink out of the bottle like a commoner?  When had it been a tradition to waste blood in mundane torture?  Blood was sacred.  Blood was their heritage, their power.  She would have to have the elves, finally, clean the blood-sprayed walls and stained floors of the dungeons, now that the Dark Lord was no longer there to enjoy them.

 

Until this past year, she had never allowed one not of the family into her home without having ensured it was presentable.  When Aurors and Ministers visited, there must be no sign of the arts that had been made illegal by short-sighted officials and zealots.  And certainly, when guests of any sort were welcomed, they needed to be made comfortable, in a clean and refined environment. The Dark Lord had required the use of the manor, however, and her husband had complied.  Perhaps that was the _Alohomora_ that opened the way for the risks she took today.

 

For here she was, pricking her finger on the sharp point at the gate to let those of the Malfoy family through the wards, in case of disaster when they might need access yet not have their wands.  She was only glad that the point was disillusioned, so that the Malfoy use of blood as an emergency method of entry was hidden from the judgemental eyes of the Aurors.

 

The front walk and lawn were trampled.  The front door had been scarred by one of the Dark Lord’s werewolf allies.  And she had allowed this.

 

The entry, at least, had been cleaned.  Perhaps the house elves had taken it upon themselves to make it presentable for her return. 

 

She made her way to the main library.  She did not run her fingers along the spines to find the book she was after.  Such treatment would destroy some of the Malfoy collection, and could well lose her an arm.

 

In a long stride, she passed the public shelves, leaving the Aurors behind, and quickly turned down one aisle to touch three books in rapid succession, duck into the opening that cleared, and close it behind her.

 

She breathed deeply but quietly.  One Malfoy secret, saved from the Aurors’ prying eyes.  On the third shelf from the top, on the fifth case in, was a small, pale, leather-bound book. 

 

She took it from the shelf.  The leather was soft from age and handling, and was the colour of cream.  She ran her fingers along it.  There had been one like it at the Black Estate that she had learned from, but she had not been there for many years.  She remembered studying her childhood copy: learning the runes, and learning to focus her will.  That was the Black family book, with its own stories and secrets.  The Black book was bound in dark red, and the leather was textured.  The one in her hands reminded her of the Malfoy men: pale, dangerous, beautiful to look at, full of stories more complicated than outward appearance.

 

This was the Malfoy children’s book.  She remembered teaching Draco, watching his young face scrunch up in concentration, before he had learnt to keep his face calm in the face of adversity.  She opened it.  There it all was, Wizarding traditions passed down from parent to child within each family, each slightly different, each followed in the name of generations.  The reason for life was lineage.  Each spell, each ward, each glyph of protection written in this book was in the name of protecting the blood.  She would protect her child with her life.  Any pureblood who remained true to the old ways would.

 

Swiftly, she marked the sections she wished to reveal, and then triggered the runes that would selectively show just those sections.  Although she must open the Manor to outsiders who did not wish them well, she would not reveal more than was necessary.  When she had protected all that she could, she went to the other end of the narrow hall of books, the most protected library of Malfoy Manor. 

 

She activated the glass by which she could see past the door, painting the necessary rune with her finger.  The Aurors were still seeking her in the area of her entry point.  The magic used to conceal the private library also seemed to misdirect the controller on her bracelet:  the Aurors were scanning the controller, and probably could tell she was close, but not her specific location.  She could only surmise that they didn’t want to stun their only guide at the Manor—she had made it quite clear that they should stick close to her or the protections at the Manor might well trap them.   She smirked briefly, but knew she had better return to them before they gave up and activated the stun rather than risk her escape, regardless of the risk to themselves.  Tracing the rune on the door and focussing on her will, she felt it come ajar with a soft click.  As quickly as she had entered, she left the narrow aisle, closed the door behind her, and moved halfway down the next aisle to protect the location of the entry. 

 

Composing herself, she walked back to where she heard the Aurors, three aisles down.  “I have what I need.”  One of the Aurors jumped.  He had been reaching to touch a book in the shelves.

 

“I wouldn’t touch that one, if I were you.  Not if you like that hand.”  The Auror jerked back his hand.  Narcissa smiled.

 

Using every ounce of the skill she had developed in acting the hostess for both ministry officials and the Dark Lord, although not at the same time, she manoeuvred the Aurors out before they could snoop too much.  She doubted they even realized they were being managed. 

 

When she arrived back at the castle, the Aurors brought her back to their rooms, despite her request to see Lucius.  She asked them to pass the message along that she had the proof the Headmistress desired.  Once they had locked her in, fortunately removing the bracelet first, she brought Draco up to date on his father, as well as the opportunity she had opened for him. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  **Of Family Obligations**

_May 7, 1998_

 

The knock at the door was followed, without even a courtesy pause, by the sound of a murmured spell to unlock it, and the creak as the door opened.  An Auror came in and scanned the room with eyes and wand, before gesturing Minerva McGonagall into the room.  Narcissa schooled her features into a pleasant blandness, before turning to face her visitor, still not quite able to decide whether she felt complimented or irritated by their obvious wariness toward her family.  Did they imagine she would carve into them with the spoons that were furnished with their lunch, like a deranged Muggle? 

 

As Headmistress McGonagall stepped through, she heard Draco barely repress an exasperated huff.  He did need to work on controlling his presentation.   No sooner had she thought that, when her son stood up, turned toward the Headmistress with a neutral, curious gaze.  They both knew what the Headmistress was visiting about, and Narcissa had the book to hand, but Draco was within his rights to be annoyed.  He had written several letters to the woman, and she had ignored them.

 

The Headmistress may have seen something of her, or more likely her son’s thoughts, for she turned to him. “I have received your messages, Mr Malfoy.  I will address them in due course, but at the moment, I need to speak with your mother in my office, for reasons I’m sure she has discussed with you.  I will have tea prepared for us.  Please bring the book you retrieved, so we may discuss it.  In addition, your sister – Andromeda Tonks – has made a request.  I am to determine if it is one we can honour. ”

 

Narcissa raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but Professor McGonagall merely waited.  She searched the older woman’s face, which was cool but showed no other signs. After a moment, she nodded. 

 

“I’m afraid, given the circumstances, I must again ask you to wear this.”  The bracelet that Professor McGonagall held out was a solid band of silver with no apparent clasp.  “It is not as extensively protected as the Auror detaining bracelet you wore earlier today, but it still has several features to ensure that you will return here at the end of our conversation.”

 

“I would not leave my family to your... care.  I’m sure I’ve mentioned this?”  

 

“Nevertheless, it is required.  Be aware that it will stupefy under the same conditions as the Auror model, although perhaps not so vigorously.”

 

“That does relieve the mind.  Your Aurors gave the impression that the device was potentially life-threatening.  I, of course, would never expect such casual disregard for human life among your group.”  Her voice was wry.  The very fact that they did not teach basic methods to protect the children against such a danger as they were seeing now made it clear that their oft touted values were only within their narrow view of the world. 

 

Narcissa had already chosen her way, however, and there was no purpose served in indecision or debate.  She stretched out her hand for the bracelet, and slid it onto her wrist.  As soon as it touched her skin, it shrank to fit, neither too tight, nor loose enough to remove.

 

She gestured toward the door, as if she were the lady of the house, and the Headmistress passed through it, only to pause on the other side to wait as Narcissa exited their suite as well.  With Narcissa flanked by an Auror on one side, and McGonagall on the other, they made their way to the Headmistress’ office.

 

Today, both on the way out to Malfoy Manor, and just now, was Narcissa’s first chance to see the full extent of the destruction of the battle.  When she left for the Manor she had been focussed on her plans, on how to get in, get the book, and get out, without allowing the Aurors too much access.  They could have pushed the matter, of course.  She had needed to control each movement, each gesture, each word, so as to direct their choices without them being aware of it. 

 

Now she had the leisure to observe her Alma Mater.  It looked more like a battlefield than a school, even days later.  She did not feel quite as horrified by the destruction here as she did by that at the Manor, but it still pained her.  Hogwarts was where she had learned to love Lucius.  This was where she had yielded her neck to his kisses.  Even with a son almost grown, those kisses caused her body to tremble and yearn.  Lucius was the only one she had ever considered.  When she chose him, she chose his path, and put her skills and wit toward furthering his goals, knowing they walked their path together.  She aligned herself with his family, and gave her heart to him.  It was at Hogwarts that they had started their plans for a future together.  A future almost certainly destroyed.  A future she would do anything to reclaim for Draco.

 

* * *

 

 

The Headmaster's Office, Narcissa observed, had changed.  She had last been here when Dumbledore had been in residence, with his garish gewgaws and ornaments.  Of course McGonagall was in charge now.  The office now was much more relaxing, if just as cluttered, now with papers. 

 

The tea table stood to the side with a properly prepared tea and sandwiches, and McGonagall gestured her to sit, exactly as if this were a social call.  Narcissa appreciated the effort.  McGonagall poured the tea, and offered a sandwich.  When they each had a plate and a cup to hand, McGonagall spoke.

 

“Your sister Andromeda lost her only child to the wand of Bellatrix Lestrange.”

 

Narcissa’s heart clenched at further evidence that her sister truly had gone insane.  Much as she disapproved of Andromeda’s choice to marry that mudblood, her niece was still of Black blood, and the blood, at least, should have been respected, however tainted. 

 

McGonagall continued with another shocking statement. “The funeral will be tomorrow, at the Black estate, by the wishes of the current Head of the Black family.”

 

Narcissa had not been to the Black estate since it had been closed six years ago.  After Arcturus’ death, his widow and his spinster cousin Cassiopeia had managed to dodder around the old Black estate for another year.  When they died, within a month of each other, there had been no one in the line and of the blood to leave it to, what with Arcturus’ son Orion dead, and his grandsons either dead, in the case of Regulus, or cast out and in Azkaban, in the case of Sirius.  Various cousins and nieces and nephews who might have been eligible to lead the family had either died or married out, as Narcissa herself had, thereby transferring her first loyalty to her husband’s family.  The estate had been sealed, and none but those of the Blood could gain entrance.  Andromeda had taken her life in her hands to even venture there, cast out as she was, but apparently she had succeeded.  But even more astounding was the latter part of the headmistress’ statement.

 

“There is a new head of the family?  Why was I not informed?”

 

“You are being informed now.  From what I gather, the transition occurred yesterday afternoon.  Sirius Black declared Harry Potter his heir in name, magic, and blood.”

 

Narcissa tracked back the Black lineage.  “Dorea Black married Charlus Potter.  Yes, I suppose that would make him eligible.  Still, I had thought that Draco…”

 

“You know the Black family better than I do.  Which line had precedence?” 

 

Narcissa considered.  The Potter boy actually had a claim.   Suddenly she realised:  there was a half-blood head of house Black!  Harry Potter might have the right to claim her allegiance, especially if Lucius and Draco—

 

She set aside the thought, lest the pain of it distract her from necessity.  She knew she would have to include all possibilities in her calculations to ensure that the Malfoy family continued, but for now, the sacrifice she would likely have to make ripped her soul open.  Each moment she could spend with her husband was precious, yet even now she sacrificed those moments to create a future for her son.  She would not have the luxury of Lucius’ presence for long, and she yearned to spend this time with the man she had fallen in love with all those years ago, and who held her loyalty to this day.

 

For Draco’s sake, and the sake of the family name, she would have to consider what benefit she could get.  And having Harry Potter as the head of her family did have benefit, once the unthinkable happened.  If he followed the rules, she would be able to call on him to provide protection and defence.  She would use that, for herself and for Draco.  She would use it all.

 

“Mr Potter will also be at the funeral, and it will also include a memorial for his mentor, Remus Lupin.”  McGonagall broke into her thoughts.

 

Not only half-bloods, but werewolves as well.  She could already sense the shaking of the Black mausoleum as the dead shuddered in their crypts.

 

“I will allow you to attend this funeral if I have your word, on your magic, that you will do nothing to disrupt it.  Mr Potter and Mrs Tonks have been through enough, and have a right to their grief, and to have a memorial to their loved ones in peace.”

 

Narcissa looked down her nose at the woman seated before her.  “I would not disrupt such an event, especially on Black land, regardless of my personal feelings.  You understand little if you think I would even consider it.”

 

The Headmistress nodded.

 

“I would ask a favour, however.  My son is also of the lineage.  He has the right to attend as well.  It would be of benefit to him, to be able to re-connect with my side of the family, however truncated it is at present.”

 

McGonagall pursed her lips.  “Your son and Mr Potter have no need to ‘reconnect’.  They have connected quite enough in their years here, and do not have the best history.    Mr Potter doesn’t need his old school nemesis disrupting such a tragic occasion.  Can your son abide by the same restrictions? I would expect the same oath of him, as he is of age to make it.”

 

Circumstances had constrained their choices.  Narcissa did not want her son to risk such an oath.  He still had trouble controlling himself, especially around Harry Potter.  But if he could—if he could use the connection that now existed between Harry Potter and her line, they might just get out of this.

 

“Draco will behave.  I will explain the need to him, and he will give his word.”

 

“Now that that is settled, I would like to see this book of yours.”

 

Narcissa took the book from the pocket of her robe, but held it in her hand.  “This book is part of the Malfoy family heritage.”

 

“You may retain it.  I would ask to copy any relevant pages, to assist in protecting the volunteers.”

 

Narcissa handed the book to the Headmistress.  “You will want to look on page 26.  That is where the rites of cleansing are contained. 

 

McGonagall turned to the page as directed, and then proceeded to read.  Her face grew pale as she read, as well it should, considering the ignorance that was being perpetuated at the school for which she was responsible.

 

Turning page after page, until she reached the end of the section, and indeed, the end of the parts of the book Narcissa had allowed for viewing, McGonagall read the words and examined the glyphs and drawings.  She put the book down when she was done.

 

“Mr Malfoy, Draco Malfoy that is, knows how to do this?”

 

Narcissa looked at her coolly, "It is the first magic they do as part of the family.  From the age of seven, our children share in the responsibility to protect the family and their home.”

 

“How many people are needed to do the work?”

 

Narcissa considered.   “If time were not a concern, one person could do it alone.  However, for safety and for speed, I would recommend no less than four in a group, but five would be preferable.  More teams of five would speed the work, if you could find enough that know the process.  The knowledge and skill of the members of the group are more important than mere quantity.”

 

“Would you be able to identify students that have this knowledge?  There are several students among the volunteers, as well as among those detained here.  Kingsley Shacklebolt and I have decided that incarceration at the Ministry, much less at Azkaban, is not conducive to rehabilitation of students who had come under – Tom Riddle’s influence.” 

 

“Whose influence?”

 

The wry twist of the Headmistress’ lips warned her.  “Tom Riddle was a half-blood who attended Hogwarts in the nineteen forties.  He chose to change his name, to distance himself from his past.  He died at Harry Potter’s hands on the morning of May second.

 

Narcissa leaned back in shock, certain that her face gave her away. She suddenly remembered something Draco had said a few days ago that had not made sense.  He had been ranting, and she had been more concerned with Lucius at the moment.  The Dark Lord, a half-blood! 

 

She had known he was cruel to enemies and followers alike, and that he was a powerful wizard who excelled in the dark arts.  She had learned that he was base and disturbed.  But she had thought it was a known thing, that which sometimes afflicted pure-blood families, or those who are incautious with the dark arts.  She thought that he valued what she did. He spoke of valuing wizarding blood.  She remembered attending a meeting, while she was yet at Hogwarts, and listening to this charismatic man speak about the need to restore true wizarding traditions.  How could he restore what he had never truly known?  

 

She closed her eyes and gathered her thoughts.  The Dark Lord was dead; her life continued.  She had to focus on that.

 

The Headmistress had avoided saying “Your Master”, although she was sure that the older woman had thought it.  She wondered at the circumlocution.  Was she allowing for the possibility that Narcissa herself had not followed him?  Or perhaps it was too much work to say “your husband’s erstwhile master.”  She almost discounted the possibility that Professor McGonagall had used the name to convey information, or to acquire it.  Perhaps she shouldn’t.  The old witch knew something now that she hadn’t known before, as did Narcissa. 

 

Narcissa took a sip of her tea, replaying the conversation in her mind, and returned to the Headmistress’ actual question.  Giving the names of those skilled in the art of cleansing also revealed affiliations that should perhaps be kept silent, now that their opponents were ascendant.  It was, nevertheless, necessary.

 

“Do you know the status of Miss Greengrass or Miss Parkinson? I would trust either of them, as well as young Mr Nott, if they are in your…collection.  I know them from long family acquaintance.  The Zabini boy would be a good choice.  He would have been trained when his mother was married into the Selwyn family.”

 

“You’ve only mentioned Slytherins.”  McGonagall noted.  She sipped her tea, but did not let her gaze waver from Narcissa’s face.    

 

“There may well be other purebloods I could recommend, but I am not as familiar with all the families as I am with the ones I mentioned.  "You've seen what happened to those people in the infirmary.  Anyone who is not well trained in this task, and experienced enough that the work and the necessary caution would be instinct, stands to lose their magic completely.  Can you imagine living like a Muggle?"  Narcissa allowed herself a delicate shudder.

 

“Then why risk your son?”

 

“I trained him, using this exact book.”  She picked up the pale book on the table and returned it to the safety of her lap.  “I worked with him.  The risk to him is not nearly as much as the risk to _all_ of us if we allow undertrained witches and wizards, regardless of their house, to attempt it. You need someone who understands, in blood and bone, what the risks and consequences are.  You need someone whose caution is ingrained, because they are familiar with the dangers of dark magic, and not just the rhetoric put forth by the Ministry and…certain other parties.  If I had my preference, I would do the work myself.  When my husband has recovered, _he_ could do it—” The flicker of rejection in McGonagall’s eyes was exactly what Narcissa expected.  “But you don’t trust us.  I’m asking you to trust my son, or at the very least, trust my son’s desire to see a future.

 

When the Headmistress didn’t respond, Narcissa continued, “The children I mentioned are all Slytherin.  I mention them because I know that their families practice the old ways.  There are families that may also practice the tradition in other houses—I know of at least three in Ravenclaw, and another two in Hufflepuff.  Whether their experience working with dark magic is extensive enough for me to trust them in the cleansing is not something I can confirm.  In addition, while those in other houses than Slytherin might know the rites, I don’t know how well they would work with my son, considering the prejudice present at Hogwarts.” 

 

McGonagall protested “The teachers at Hogwarts have always treated their students fairly.”

 

“The Malfoy family name protected Draco.  I know this as well as you.  But even so, most of the points deducted from Slytherin house were taken by you, Headmistress.  I trust you will be more even handed in the future.  Students recognize prejudice, and act accordingly.”

 

“Your son and his friends were far from innocent, Mrs Malfoy.  I took points where I saw wrongdoing.  Frankly, if all the wrongdoing had been accounted for, Slytherin house would have suffered greatly.”  The Headmistress frowned.  “Counting of points, is not the matter at hand, however.  We were discussing the removal of the taint in the magic at Hogwarts.  You would have me create an all Slytherin crew?”

 

"I would.  Give the children a chance Headmistress.  Their parents are imprisoned or dead, their funds tied up until the Wizengamot has its say. They have nothing but their heritage, and that is what will save Hogwarts."

 

 The Headmistress considered.  “How long will it take?  Can the other volunteers continue to work?”

 

“There is no need to endanger them.  A weekend’s delay will not matter, but each spell cast makes Hogwarts more precarious.”

 

The Headmistress nodded, making a note. 

 

“The time required depends on the resources you have available.  I assume you have a list of the… _detainees_ currently at Hogwarts?  Perhaps also a list of your volunteers?  It would be especially useful if I could discuss it with my son.  While I might recognise families that have practiced our traditions, Draco would know which students were skilled.”

 

McGonagall did not look pleased at the prospect of providing such information.  Narcissa adjusted her hands in her lap to draw attention to the book she had brought, and gazed directly into the other woman’s eyes.  Information needed to pass both ways for either of them to achieve their goals.  McGonagall nodded.  “You will have it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks:
> 
> As always: thanks to my betas ivyingardenand and rosskpr. Their help made this chapter better, between brainstorming, catching errors in grammar and canon, reviewing plot flow, and supplying encouragement to "write write write". Any errors after the two of them have combed through the work are from the author not paying attention!
> 
> Disclaimer: 
> 
> Harry Potter, his friends, his enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to JK Rowling. I play here.


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